


Ex Nihilo

by Casteaowl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Airman!Cas, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cas smokes, Cas-centric, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, No Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seriously there's a lot of angst, Slow Burn, but there's eventual fluff too I promise, depictions of mental illness, discussions of trauma from war, social worker!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:19:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casteaowl/pseuds/Casteaowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>EDIT: Apparently when I uploaded this I accidentally submitted one of my rough drafts rather than the final draft. Also a chunk of the story seems to be missing entirely. I will fix this as soon as I get back to my own computer. Bear with me please! I will make an updated when I've corrected my error.</p><p>Castiel is a disillusioned war veteran who thought he was too broken to ever have anything resembling a normal life, and has settled himself with the bare minimum. His life changes when he finds himself with custody of his young niece after his twin brother and his wife are killed. To prevent Claire from being taken away and sent to live in foster care or with distant relatives, Castiel attempts to get his life together enough to raise her. But problems arise when his ability to take proper care of Claire comes into question. He finds help in the form of a quirky social worker and his brother—a lawyer—who help him fight to keep full custody of his niece. And maybe, along the way, these broken people can create a new family together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my second work for the fandom, and the longest thing I've written to date. I spent a long time on this one, and parts of it have been rewritten countless times. There were a thousand ways I could think of to tell the story, and I had a hard time finding the right way. That was one of my biggest challenges while writing this. There are some parts I'm still not totally satisfied with, and I may decide to go back and update this sometime. For now, I'm pretty happy with it overall. I had fun with this story, though I had a lot of issues along the way, and I plan to do an epilogue of sorts, to kind of tie up loose ends, as well as several time stamps/deleted scenes. There were a ton of scenes I intended to write (or did write, in many cases) that I ended up having to cut out because they just didn't fit in the way I wanted them to. I had a certain time-frame I wanted the story to take place during. Otherwise the story would have ended up being incredibly long, and I didn't have the time to write 500k words. Anyway, the story is intentionally a little open-ended, because the idea I was going for was that there's no instant cure for Cas. (For Claire and Dean as well, but especially Cas's ptsd.) Even at the end, there's still work left to be done. It's a long road to recovery for all of them. Anyway, just throwing that out there as kind of a warning.
> 
> And now, thanks to my lovely artist, [xlostloonax](http://xlostloonax.livejournal.com) Thanks for being so patient with me, and for creating these beautiful pieces of art, which you can see [here](http://xlostloonax.livejournal.com/13119.html)! Also, thank you to my real life friend [duplicitycon](http://duplicitycon.tumblr.com)for reading this for me and helping me out. Next, thank you to [osirisjones](http://osirisjones.tumblr.com) for offering to beta on a short notice. You all were a great help, and I really appreciate it.

_Ex Nihilo: Latin. (adv., adj.) out of nothing, from nothing. “creatio ex nihilo”—creation out of nothing._

\--

Castiel likes routine. Routine is sometimes the only thing that helps him make it through a day. It’s nowhere near as strict as he’s used to, but it works, more or less.

Wake up. Start the day. It doesn’t matter if it’s three in the morning or three in the afternoon.

Drink enough coffee to feel like he never needs to sleep again. Smoke his morning cigarette.

Remember to take medication. Or, more often than not, forget to take medication, or just simply decide not to take medication.

Shower, just so he can feel like he’s doing something productive.

Pace around the apartment for a while, looking for something to do.

Try and watch tv. Turn the tv off after less than five minutes.

Settle on reading a book he’s read so often he can practically recite it from memory. Get very little actual reading done, but sit there anyway until he’s passed enough time.

Remember to eat at some point.

Smoke several more cigarettes during the process of trying to pass time.

Make dinner, because that’s something normal people do. Pretend like he’s not going to most likely puke it right back up when he wakes up from his nightmares.

Decide whether or not he feels like taking more medication.

Waste time doing more pointless tasks. Delay the inevitable until he’s tired enough that he thinks he’s going to pass out regardless of whether he wants to or not. This is usually the point where he’ll look for a few simple online translation or editing jobs to earn a few extra bucks if it’s getting close to the end of the month and funds are running low.

Tell himself that he’ll do more tomorrow to get his life back on track and become a useful member of society.

Smoke another cigarette before bed, while he’s at it. If it’s been a bad day, he might as well finish the pack.

Sleep until the nightmares come back.

Wake up. Start the day. Rinse and repeat.

Occasionally there’s some deviation. Every few days, Hannah visits to check on him. Convince her that he’s doing just fine and is well on his way to getting back on the road of becoming a normal, functioning human being again.

Twice a month he goes and lies to his therapist for an hour so that society thinks he’s becoming a normal, functioning human being again and they don’t put him in an institution again. It’s not too bad. He can deal with it.

A routine gives him some small semblance of control in his life, something he feels like he hasn’t really had in a long time. Any great deviation in his routine causes him unnecessary stress, and the doctors _did_ tell him to try and avoid stress if at all possible. He supposes this is better than being stuck in a psych ward. He is (or has to be) content with his meager quality of life as it is. He realizes that he’s never going to get anywhere better in life if he keeps this up, but at this point Castiel isn’t sure he’s fit for much else.

It’s all he can do just to keep what little he has from falling apart and crashing down.

And then he receives the phone call, and it all comes instantly crashing down anyway.

\--

When he shuts off the water and looks into the tiny bathroom’s mirror he doesn’t see his own face. It’s his brother Jimmy staring back at him. He sucks in a sharp breath and shuts his eyes. Count to three. Don’t smash the glass. Open your eyes. It doesn’t help. Jimmy’s still there. Honestly, Castiel isn’t sure what he expects. He’s never going to see anything else. It’s been a long time since he’s looked in the mirror and _really_ seen himself.

It’s been two days since he received the phone call, and at least three people have asked him how it feels to lose your twin brother and if it feels like he’s lost half of himself. Castiel still has no idea how to respond to that. He wasn’t all that close to Jimmy or his wife. They were close when they were younger, but then they both had their own lives and began to drift apart. In his opinion, that’s not terribly out of the ordinary for siblings, but it was only in the last few years that the ridge really began to grow. That was his own fault. Jimmy had made an effort to keep the relationship up, but Castiel hadn’t really bothered to try to stay in touch. When he’d returned from his last tour of duty, he’d become somewhat of a hermit in his small little house.

The fact that Jimmy and Amelia are dead isn’t what’s bothering him the most. Of course, he loved his brother and sister-in law. He still does, very much. But what really makes him want to scream is the fact that his niece just lost both of her parents and somehow both Jimmy and Amelia agreed that _he_ would be the best choice to raise Claire if something happened to them. As fucked up as he was and apparently he was still trustworthy enough to take care of a young girl. His mental health and ability to take care of himself had even been the topic of several arguments between he and Jimmy.

His brother and sister are dead, their eight-year old daughter is an orphan, and Castiel is expected to be able to pull himself together enough to deal with this and take care of Claire. Jimmy was always the family man, the one everyone figured would end up having a wife and kids, a dog, and a white-picket fence to boot. Castiel, not so much. Especially now. And yet, fate has a terrible sense of humor.

A choked laugh forced itself out of his throat. He’s in way over his head. There’s no way he can do this without screwing up.

\--

“And Claire is alright? She’ll be released from the hospital soon?”

Hannah’s voice startles Castiel out of his reverie. They’d been standing in silence for what felt like hours. “Yes,” he answers. “I’m…” His mouth struggles to form the proper words. “I’m picking her up Friday morning.” The unspoken _if everything goes well_ hangs in the air. Friday is three days away, and he’s still having trouble accepting recent events. It’s been two days since he received that phone call, and it somehow feels like it just happened and like it happened forever ago. Almost like he’s disconnected from the time-space continuum and is just floating in the void, looking down at the world.

“Have you visited her yet?”

He’s fairly certain Hannah knows the answer to that. She’s been with him more often than not lately. He responds anyway. “No.”

His mind drifts again while he waits for Hannah to say something.

“Are…” She chooses her words carefully. “Are you going to visit her?” This is Hannah’s way of trying to gently ease her way into a topic of conversation that she knows will upset Castiel. She’s probably far too blunt for most people’s standards, but he likes her this way. It’s the Hannah he’s always known. And he prefers bluntness to people tip-toeing around him like they’re afraid to break him.

“No.” He can’t face her yet. He’s not ready. Honestly, he’s not sure he ever will be truly ready, but he’ll take whatever time he can get to prepare himself, even if it’s just a few days.

“Do you want me to go with you to pick her up?”

He looks away. “That’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure this is wise, Castiel?” The subject change is kind of abrupt, but Castiel knows exactly what she’s referring to, even if he would rather avoid the matter altogether. Life apparently doesn’t work like that.

He leans heavily against the railing of his porch and watches a family amble down the street with their young daughter between them, probably on their way home from visiting friends or something. As they pass by, he puffs out another breath of smoke and averts his gaze, instead sparing his friend a half-hearted glare. “What choice do I have?”

Hannah lets out a short, sharp exhale, like a half-muted sigh. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“And what would you have me do, Hannah?” he replies, taking another drag from the cigarette gripped tightly between his fingers. “Let the state take her and juggle her between foster homes until she turns eighteen? Send her off to live with distant relatives she’s only met once or not at all? After all that I’ve done— _or, haven’t done_ —Jimmy would never forgive me if I let that happen. I won’t let it happen.”

“Are you even up for this?”

“I’m fine.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hannah shake her head and move to stand next to him. “I worry about you,” she says softly.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps. Although Hannah doesn’t outwardly react, and though he knows for a fact she’s used to his more aggressive outbursts, he immediately feels guilty. During his more unstable period last year, Hannah dropped everything and moved all the way from Montana so she could be closer to him. Even now, she’s taking time off from work to—as she put it—“help settle necessary affairs.” As soon as she found out what happened. He’s immensely grateful to her, because there’s no way he could do all this by himself.

“Alright,” she agrees, straightening her posture and crossing her arms before resting them on the railing. From her tone, Castiel knows that she hasn’t given up her point yet, though she’s changing her tactic. “And what if the court disagrees? They won’t hand a young girl over to someone who they don’t think is even fit to take care of _himself_ , much less a child. Even if your brother’s will does name you as guardian.”

He bristles slightly at her words. “I don’t need you to doubt me, Hannah.” He’s doing enough of that on his own.

Hannah catches the edge to his voice. “I don’t mean to offend you, Castiel,” she adds. “I’m merely trying to see the situation from the opposing point of view. You have to be prepared for that.”

The family has long-since passed by his house, but he can still hear the daughter’s happy shrieks, and if he cranes his neck he can still see them as tiny figures near the end of the street.

“I know,” he says.

He hears Hannah take a deep breath, and he guesses that she’s about to say something else that she knows he won’t like. Castiel waits. He finishes the cigarette and lights up another.

“Castiel,” she begins. “I realize that you want to do this. Or, you feel you have to do this. I’m not sure which. But are you sure that the girl would not be better off with someone else? Is there really no one else? Are you sure it wouldn’t be better to have her in a stable family? Even if that family is a foster family. She’s still young. She needs some sense of normalcy. This will be stressful for both of you. You need to do what’s best for Claire, but also for yourself.”

“This is best,” he says immediately. “I have to make things right, Hannah. I have to. If this is the only thing I can do, I’ll do it.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, Hannah or himself.

“You talked to an attorney earlier today. What did he say?”

Castiel frowns and turns his gaze upward. The sky is just starting to darken, and the cicadas and other insects are starting to come out. The temperature is dropping too, but the weather is still warm enough that it’s not unpleasant yet.

“Amelia’s parents live out of state, and they’re getting too old to take on the full responsibility of raising a young child, anyway. As far as relatives are concerned, there are few choices. Any other sensible option is either unwilling or unable to take her. That, combined with the fact that it’s my name on the will makes it unlikely that anyone else will step up to contest my taking at least temporary guardianship of Claire. It’s just…”

“Just…?”

He regrets ever opening his mouth. “I have enough money saved to take care of Claire until I can procure employment,” is what he says instead. “In any case, it’s likely that either Amelia’s parents will be asked to act as ‘financial guardian,’ and I will be allowed to be her ‘personal guardian.’” His voice catches in his throat, and it becomes surprisingly difficult to continue speak. “I have….already submitted the necessary paperwork. Including proof of… _medical_ treatment. I am competent enough. I have to be.”

“Is that what the attorney told you?”

Castiel taps the cigarette in his hand, and watches as the ashes fall. “I was told to expect a visit from a social worker,” he offers. It’s a pitiful attempt at dodging the subject, but thankfully Hannah doesn’t fight it. “After that, on the recommendation of the social worker, the judge will approve my status as Claire’s standby guardian. And then I will have roughly ninety days to petition for permanent guardianship. The whole process can and often does take longer, but it’s being somewhat expedited due to ‘dire circumstances.’ This is the way it has to be.”

Hannah is silent for a long time, long enough for the sky to get dark enough that the street lights come on. “If that’s what you believe, Castiel, and if that’s what you want.”

He knows Hannah will support his decision either way. It still doesn’t make it any easier, though. Even he can admit deep down that she’s probably right. But there’s absolutely nothing he can do, aside from pretend. The cigarette falls from his fingers, and he grinds it into the ground with his boot. Wordlessly, he pushes himself away from the railing and retreats back into his house. He hears the quiet “what will you do, Castiel?” as he steps inside, but he doesn’t respond. What else can he do?

That night, his sleep is blissfully dreamless (or, more likely, he just doesn’t remember anything) for the first time in a long time. Still, he feels every bit like the proper, emotionless killing machine that his commanding officer wanted him to be.


	2. Chapter 2

A persistent banging sound wakes him up the next morning (afternoon). The sound startles him into consciousness and he’s out of bed and on his feet in an instant. He only relaxes minutely when he realizes what the sound is. He lets out the breath he’d been holding and waits. Nobody ever visits him, except for Hannah, and she would never show up unannounced. It’s only when the knocking doesn’t stop—and maybe even becomes more aggressive—that Castiel accepts that it may be something important and they may not be going away anytime soon.

Honestly, the last thing he feels like doing is answering the door and potentially having a serious conversation with someone he doesn’t know. But he also wants the knocking to stop, because it’s starting to give him a headache and the thought of someone just standing outside of his door is just as unsettling as letting someone into his house.

Without bothering to care enough to make himself presentable, he pads out of his bedroom and across the house, and presses himself up against the door to peer through the peep-hole. On the other side is a man, probably around his age, wearing a dark suit and a smile that looks far too charming to be genuine. Castiel steps back and opens the door as far as it will open without having to undo the chain. He wedges himself into the opening as much as he can and squints at the intruder.

“Can I help you?” he says. His voice comes out ruder than he intended, making it sound more like a demand than a question.

The man quirks an eyebrow, but the plastered-on smile doesn’t falter, so Castiel figures he must be used to dealing with rude people. Nevertheless, he doesn’t say anything, and all Castiel wants is to find out what this guy wants and get him off of his doorstep, so he offers a rough “sorry” in an effort to prompt the stranger to speak.

“Uh, right,” the man says at last. “I’m looking for a Mr…” The man trails off as she shuffles through a file that Castiel didn’t even notice he was holding. “Mr…Dmitri Novak.”

“May I ask who’s looking for him?”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry, man.” He clears his throat, almost like he’s embarrassed by something. Castiel can’t help but think this man seems awfully unprofessional, but then again, he’s not really in any position to say anything, so he waits for the man to continue. “My name is Dean Winchester,” the man—Dean—says, and starts digging through his pockets. “You can just call me Dean, though.” Castiel goes rigid until he realizes that what he’s pulled out is an identification badge.

Dean either doesn’t notice his brief discomfort, or doesn’t care, because he continues speaking. “I’m here on behalf of Illinois’ Child Protective Services.”

Castiel remembers what the lawyer from the other day told him, and assumes this is the social worker he was told to expect. Admittedly, he didn’t think one would show up at his door less twenty-four hours later, but he figures he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course the state is going to want to hurry and clear this process through as quickly as possible so that Claire won’t be stuck without a legal guardian.

“Castiel,” is all he chokes out. He’d intended to say something along the lines of “I prefer Castiel” or even “I am Castiel,” but Dean seems to get the point.

“Right. Castiel,” Dean says, and lets out a low whistle. “Dmitri Castiel Novak. What a name.” The man stumbles slightly over his full name, though it’s far from the worst rendition of it that he’s heard, so he doesn’t say anything. “Awesome. So I guess you know why I’m here.”

Castiel nods once.

“Great. Well that makes this part of my job easier.” Dean laughs, and Castiel wonders for a moment if showing up on oblivious peoples’ doorsteps is a recurring problem, or whether the man is just trying to be funny. They stand in awkward silence until Dean finally gestures to the entryway, which Castiel is still standing protectively in front of. “Mind if I, uh, come in?”

Yes, he does mind, actually. But since he can’t exactly slam the door in the social worker’s face and still expect to be allowed to take Claire, he shuts the door, undoes the chain lock, and opens the door again. He steps back to allow Dean to enter. As soon as Dean steps through the threshold, he shuts and re-locks the door. The other man stops and takes a look around the room, and Castiel suddenly feels mildly self-conscious. The house isn’t messy (thanks mostly to Hannah, who helped him clean up in preparation for this visit), but it barely looks lived in. It’s clean in an almost empty way, rather than just being neat and tidy. Not to mention that since he’d just woken up, he hadn’t even gotten around to turning any lights on, and the blinds are drawn tightly shut, so it’s ridiculously dark.

“Not a fan of lights?” Dean comments, and Castiel fumbles for a reply that doesn’t sound absolutely pathetic.

“My apologies,” he says stiffly. “I just woke up.” It occurs to him after the words have already left his mouth that he’s probably not helping this guy’s first impression of him by telling him that, but it’s too late to take it back. Instead, he moves to the nearest light switch and switches it on so the room at least isn’t totally dark.

Dean’s lips twitch as if he’s trying not to laugh. “Dude, it’s like one in the afternoon.”

“I am aware.”

“Late night?”

He frowns and moves to turn a lamp on. “You could say that.”

“Was it a good time?”

“Not especially.”

Dean makes a tsking noise. “Sucks. Was she hot, at least? Or was it the booze?”

Castiel stares at Dean. He decides he’s not a fan of Dean’s “funny guy” persona. Clearly he doesn’t realize or care that his jokes are in poor taste. “I don’t find insomnia to be ‘hot,’” he says.

“Oh.” Dean coughs.

He chooses not to say anything and instead runs a hand through his hair in silent frustration. It’s only then that he remembers he’s currently wearing nothing but a pair of sweat pants, a tank top, and bedhead. “Allow me to put on some…proper attire.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll wait here, if you wanna go ahead and hide your porn mags and hookers while you’re at it.” Dean gives Castiel a cheeky smile.

He tilts his head and squints at Dean in confusion. “I don’t have any porn magazines or hookers. Why would I need to hide anything?”

The other man falters. “You don’t have—dude, it was a _joke_. I was—” He waves a hand. “Nevermind. Just…go ahead and change. I’ll be here.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to be speechless. “Oh. Of course,” is all he says in response. He points towards the living room. “You may wait in there.”

Once he’s more appropriately dressed, Castiel finds Dean waiting innocently on the living room’s sole couch. It’s been a long time since he’s had any visitors, much less _official_ visitors. The only guest he ever has to entertain is Hannah, and even then he doesn’t have to do much. She practically lives in his house. He tries to remember the proper etiquette for guests.

“Do you want coffee?” he asks, standing in the doorway, unsure of what to do with himself. “It’s day-old coffee. I haven’t gotten around to making fresh coffee yet, but I could… Or, if you’d prefer something else…”

“You got beer?”

“I do not.” He tries to look apologetic.

Dean smiles and shrugs. “I’m kidding. Mostly. Can’t drink on the job, anyway. Day old coffee’s great, man. I’m not picky. Thanks.”

Castiel returns a few minutes later with two mugs. He hands one to Dean, sets the other on the coffee table, and proceeds to drag a chair over so he can sit facing Dean. He sips at his own coffee and stares expectantly at Dean. The other man finally speaks after Castiel has made it through half of his mug of coffee.

“So…Mr. Novak.”

Castiel interrupts him. “You may call me Castiel.” The way “Mr. Novak” sounds when Dean says it doesn’t sit right with him. It’s difficult to pin-point the reason why.

“Right. Castiel. I guess we should get started.”

The mug makes a soft clinking noise when Castiel puts it down. “Proceed.” He stares at the dark liquid in the cup, watching it swirl slightly from the movement before settling down.

The sound of paper shuffling fills the otherwise silent room, and he looks up to see Dean flipping through the same file from earlier. If he were to guess, he’d say that it was his own file, and that just about everything anyone could ever want to know about him is probably on that file. Personal information, medical information, probably everything down to how many shirts he owns. It’s a mildly uncomfortable thought. For some reason, he doesn’t like the idea of someone being able to access all of that information, and reading everything about him from a piece of paper, without his own consent, but there’s nothing he can do.

Dean sets the file down. “So, just so you know how this is going to go down. I’m supposed to ask you some questions, I look around the place, I make my evaluation and then I’m out of your hair before you know it. Sound good?”

Not really. “Yes.”

“First off…Well, I guess I should have started with this,” Dean begins. “Makes me look like a huge dick, I know.” Watching Dean suddenly try and make words is strangely amusing and irritating at the same time, and Castiel gets the impression that Dean is one of these “tough guys” that’s afraid of an emotional conversation. Not that he has much room to judge.

“I mean, I’m sorry I’m sorry I have to be here in the first place.” Castiel stares, and Dean hurriedly continues. “Wait, not like that. Just…sorry for your loss, man.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says shortly. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s not like you were personally involved in their deaths.”

Dean shrugs. “Still. I can’t imagine losing my twin brother. I’ve got a younger brother and man, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him.”

A sigh escapes before Castiel can contain it, and he sits up a little straighter. The direction this conversation is going in is unsettling, and he’d like to put an end to it before he ends up being forced to talk about certain things he’d rather pretend never happened.

“In the three days since my brother’s passing, everyone I have spoken to has made a comment regarding how they ‘can’t imagine how it must feel to lose my twin.’ While I was not very…close—as you could say—to my brother, for various reasons, I did care for him. However, he and his wife are still dead, regardless of my feelings. I will live. No amount of attempted empathy will do me any good or change the fact that they are dead and my niece is orphaned and without a home. All I want to do now is to try and help her in any way I can. I would like to leave it at that.”

Neither of them move, and for a full minute the only sounds that can be heard come from outside. Finally, it’s Dean who breaks the silence, and the apparent staring contest. “Right. Sure. I get it.” He busies himself with pulling an official-looking notebook and pen out of the bag he’d been carrying, and then he seems to shift fully into “work mode.”

“Alright, let’s start with the basics. Tell me, Castiel, when was the last time you saw Claire?”

A stabbing pain shoots through his chest, and he tries not to show it as he considers his answer. In the end, he decides to go straight to the point. “It’s been roughly four or five years.” There’s no possible way he could have worded it without either sounding like a terrible person or having to delve deeper into _why_ it’s been five years. And he doesn’t want to do that.

He half-expects Dean to question it further, but Dean simply nods, makes a note, and moves on to the next question. Castiel isn’t actually sure whether that’s a good thing or not.

“And when is she getting released from the hospital?”

“In two days.”

“How’s she doing?”

Castiel furrows his brows and ponders. “She is…well. As can be expected. Her injuries aren’t serious. She’s still being kept for observation and potential mental trauma. Though I’m told it’s mostly because of her…special situation. The doctors are making an exception by allowing her to stay a little longer.”

“Because the only guardian she has right now hasn’t been cleared for duty yet?”

Suddenly his hands are the most fascinating thing in the world, and he claps them together tightly in his lap. “Yes,” he says quietly. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Dean is studying him carefully. He can feel those eyes on him, and he fights back a shudder. When he does eventually bring his gaze back up, he sees Dean giving him a perplexed look. The emotion is a strange look on the other man’s face.

“So…how are _you_ doing?”

The question throws him off, and he sits up a little straighter in surprise. “Are you my psychiatrist or a social worker, Mr. Winchester?” he all-but snarls. “Is this a psychological evaluation? I was under the impression that it was not.”

Dean’s hands fly up in a placating gesture. “Whoa, dude, relax. I’m not asking you to wear your heart on your sleeve. I just need to know how _you_ assess your own capabilities.”

Another sigh. Castiel rubs at his forehead, trying to fight off an incoming headache. “If you’re wondering whether I can function, the answer is yes,” he grumbles.

More shuffling papers. “Okay. How are your symptoms, then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Symptoms? You know, biggest problem areas? Things that might make it hard to raise an eight year-old girl?”

As soon as the words come out of Dean’s mouth, Castiel feels the blood drain from his face. And he’s also pretty sure the temperature of the room just dropped about ten degrees. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Winchester,” he forces out, “I would rather have an open discussion about my trauma when I’m fairly sure you have everything you need to know on that stack of paper you’re holding in your hands. That’s all.”

Dean gives the file an affronted look, like it’s holding the secret to the universe and he simply can’t access it. He then turns that look to Castiel, as if it’s actually _him_ who’s hiding the secret and won’t say. “Look. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it. I can respect that. My dad was a vet too. But I’m not trying to purposely pry into your business, man. I’m just trying to do my job here. And you gotta give me _something_ to work with, okay? I’m sure you care about your niece, but I can’t give the okay to send a young child to live with freaking I, Robot, who’s got a questionable file. I have to know you can actually provide for and take care of this girl.”

The “I, Robot” comment makes Castiel flinch, though he does his best to withhold it. The reference is completely lost on him, but he can assume it’s not good, just from the way Dean says it. He’s reminded of what Hannah told him last night about not even being capable of taking care of himself. But the other man doesn’t give him a chance to say or do anything else.

“Yeah, I could make a decision based purely on the information I have in my hand.” He waves the papers for emphasis. “But I don’t think you really want me to do that. And I know first-hand that what other people say about you isn’t always the truth. So I’m trying to give you a chance to defend yourself.”

Frankly, he’s not sure he deserves that. Dean’s giving him such a piercing stare and suddenly the chair he’s sitting in seems too confining. Rising swiftly enough that he almost knocks the chair over and startles Dean, he fumbles around until he finds the pack of cigarettes and lighter lying conveniently on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I…?” He holds up the pack.

When Dean shrugs and gives him a “go ahead” gesture, Castiel heads out towards the back porch, away from prying eyes of the neighbors. Dean follows after him wordlessly and leans against the wall while he waits for Castiel to light up a cigarette. Presumably, he’s also waiting for him to say something. At least, Castiel figures he’s not going to get away with saying nothing. So he takes a shaky inhale from the cigarette and tries to figure out what to say.

“I don’t know,” he says after finishing almost half the cigarette. “I don’t _know_ if I’m qualified by your standards. All I know is that I don’t want Claire to be passed between foster homes or sent to live somewhere she won’t be happy or cared for. I haven’t been there for her or my brother’s family when I should have. If I can do something to at least try to remedy the damage I’ve caused, I will. I can’t give her a ‘normal’ life, but I’ll do what I can for her. I’ll never forgive myself if I let the state take her and place her somewhere that ends up making her unhappy and I never even try to make it better for her myself. She’s basically the only family I have. If that means I have to change my entire lifestyle for her, then I owe her that. You can ask me what I can do to provide for her, or whatever, all you’d like. The answer is still the same. Whatever I need to. That’s all.”

A gentle breeze blows, and he sticks the half-finished cigarette in his mouth to keep it from blowing out of his hands. Neither he nor Dean say anything, but Castiel changes a glance at the other man to find Dean giving him a strange, soul-searching look, as if the social worker is desperately trying to “unlock” and figure him out. Or worse, as if Dean is trying to empathize with him again. Such a thought unnerves him, and he feels his defensive walls shooting right back up after being forced to drop them slightly.

“Is that good enough for you?” he asks, unable to hide the slight edge to his voice. He stares right back at Dean. “I believe I have little more to offer.”

They continue to stand in silence. Castiel finishes the rest of his cigarette. It’s midday, but the world around them seems unnaturally quiet.

Finally, Dean frowns slightly and breaks eye contact again. “Yeah,” he says gruffly.

\--

Dean isn’t sure what to make of Castiel Novak. He’s done plenty of interviews with sleazy, no-good, piece-of-shit, and questionable people. People that left him feeling like he needed to take a long shower after meeting them. He’s also done plenty of interviews in which he could immediately tell that they were going to end up taking the kid and winning their case. People that make him wonder why they _don’t_ already have twenty thousand children. He likes to think he’s a pretty good judge of character. He also likes to think he’s pretty damn good at his job. But none of his “clients” have ever left him with the same feeling that he has now.

It’s frustrating as hell because he’s not sure what to make of it. The feeling leaves a pit in his stomach and a heaviness in his chest, but he’s pretty sure it’s not dread or anything like that. There’s a certain jitteriness and discomfort that’s almost like a “fight or flight” sensation. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if he could just label the guy a psychopathic nut-case and be done with it. But no. Trying to get a read on this guy was like looking the wrong way through a freakin’ one-way glass. And full of contradictions. Something about Castiel’s situation tugs at him, but he can’t tell what it is. And he’s far from sober enough to do any kind of introspection. That’s Sam’s thing.

As he makes his way down the steps of Castiel’s house, he looks up towards the end of the drive-way, where he left Baby parked behind a Lincoln Continental that he can only assume belongs to the man he just talked to. Protectiveness flares up inside him when he sees a woman leaning against the trunk of said gold monstrosity and staring intently at his car, and he hurries toward the two cars. While it’s far from _the worst_ kind of neighborhood, Castiel doesn’t exactly live in the best kind of neighborhood, either—and Baby is a _very_ nice car, if he does say so himself—so it seems possible that someone could try and steal a car in broad daylight. Dean’s not about to take that chance. “Hey,” he calls out.

The woman turns her head towards him before the word is even all the way out of his mouth, making Dean wonder if she’s been waiting for him. It’s a creepy thought. “Can I help you with something, miss?”

“What is your business with Castiel?” she asks, somewhat icily. It kind of throws him off.

“I don’t really see how that’s any of your concern,” he responds coolly.

“I assure you, it is.”

Dean frowns. “So what, are you like, his woman or something? Cause let me tell you, that guy’s got some real—”

“ _No_.” She cuts him off, looking downright offended at the implication. A flicker of something passes over her face and for a second she looks like she’s about to laugh. But she carefully and quickly schools her face back into a mask of calm. “No,” she says again. “Castiel is my friend. He’s like my brother to me. I am Hannah. And I assume you are his social worker.”

Dean can certainly see why Hannah would be friends with Castiel. Hell, he’s honestly kind of wondering if they actually are related, with how similar they seem. “Yeah. Dean Winchester.”

Hannah nods. “And?”

“And?” he repeats.

“Your verdict,” she says slowly, as if it should be obvious to him. “What do you think of Castiel?”

Well shit. “Uh…” He tugs on his collar and tries to stall for time until he can bullshit a response that will satisfy her without really giving anything away. “I mean, I haven’t made my final decision yet, but you know I’m not really at liberty to, uh, say anything. And you know, the judge really has final say so my word isn’t really all _that_ important, but uh…I mean, I’m sure he’s a great guy once you get to know him…”

“This is why I didn’t support this.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at Hannah’s cryptic statement. “What?”

Hannah crosses her arms and fixes him with a cold stare. “You are in no position to judge Castiel. It’s as you said. You don’t know him as I do. Castiel is…” She trails off, and actually looks somewhat at a loss for words.

“Kind of a dick?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he instantly regrets it. He expects Hannah to chew him out, maybe try and slap him, or at least give him another death-glare. Surprisingly enough, however, she doesn’t. She must hear that a lot, he thinks.

“He is…difficult, sometimes, yes,” she finishes. “But he’s a good man.” She purses her lips and seems to consider something before she speaks again, and Dean gets the feeling that her next words are not entirely her own. “His heart is in the right place. He will do anything for that girl, even if it kills him. And still he will think it’s not enough. Know this before you cast your stone, Dean Winchester.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Hannah is already pushing past him and heading towards the house before he can even start formulating a response. The whole ordeal didn’t do anything to help his frustration levels, and he resists the urge to throw his hands up in the air. Instead, he just shakes his head and goes over to unlock his car. Once he’s seated in the driver’s seat, he starts the engine, switches on the radio, and pulls out of the driveway to make his way towards the University of Chicago Medical Center, where his final interview of the day waits.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t like hospitals. He never did. Now he likes them even less. Nurses and doctors in white coats brush past him, _far too close, far too quick,_ and it takes all his control not to run. He could run, and lose himself in the endless sterile, white hallways. But he can never run far enough. There’s too much going on, too much sadness and despair. The doctors are never as friendly as they want you to believe. It’s a business. The smell of chemicals, bodies, and linen is almost overpowering, but he can still smell the bitter stench of blood and death. It’s impossible to mask completely, and it makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t know whether the smell is real or not, but it’s still _there_ ,all the same. The nausea and memories are certainly real enough.

Castiel has spent far too much time in hospitals. Given the choice, he’d never willingly set foot in one. And yet, here he is, feeling like a fish on the shoreline as he makes his way down the halls, focusing on the clacking sound his shoes make as they hit the tile. He allows the background roar of the hospital to be drowned out by memories from yesterday’s visit to the courthouse. Words that keep repeating in his head.

_“…Court chooses to honor the will of James and Amelia Novak…grants you temporary custody of Claire Novak…acting as standby guardian…with conditions…will review and make a decision regarding permanent custody…later date.”_

After the social worker came to visit, he was almost a hundred percent sure the judge would turn him down. When he received word that he actually was being granted the role of Claire’s guardian, he wasn’t sure how to react. He still isn’t sure how he should react. Last night, he didn’t sleep at all. Every time he tried to close his eyes, all he saw were images of his brother. While getting ready this morning, he did so in the dark because he only saw his brother staring back at him when he looked in the mirror. Staring at him with a look of such disappointment, making him feel like he’s fucked up before he’s even done anything.

Hannah offered to come with him again, but he turned her down once again. He feels like he needs to at least try to do this alone. Also, he’d rather not have any more of an audience than he has to if he makes a fool of himself.

As he approaches Claire’s hospital room, he tries to figure out the most proper way to act. It’s difficult. Somehow, the idea of walking into her room after so many years—as the spitting image of her father—and saying “sorry for your loss” seems grossly inappropriate. Honestly, it’s been long enough since he’s seen Claire that he’s sort of wondering if she’ll even remember him.

He comes to room 420 and spends several minutes standing outside the door, stalling for time and thinking back on what the doctor told him. Claire’s injuries from the fire had been relatively minor. Mostly minor burns and some cuts and bruises from parts of the house that collapsed, and those were all healing nicely. Since she’d been unconscious for some time, they’d kept her under close observation to make sure there was no brain damage or lasting effects from smoke inhalation, but all her scans and tests had come back with good results. So, with the proper paperwork now in hand, the doctors had given him the okay to take her home.

A tap to his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts, and he whirls around, arms raising up in preparation to defend himself. His “attacker” turns out to be a young, wide-eyed, dark-haired woman wearing hospital scrubs and clutching a clipboard to her chest. He realizes that he spend so long standing in front of the door that a nurse must have thought he needed assistance with something.

“Are you lost? Can I help you with something?” she asks, eyeing him warily.

He forces himself to relax. “Oh. No, I…sorry. I’m…here for Claire Novak.”

The nurse gives him a mildly suspicious look, and then glances at her clipboard. “Ah. You must be Dmitri Novak.”

He gives her a stiff nod.

“We were expecting you. The doctor’s preparing her release forms. You may go inside.”

Another nod. Several people walk by. “Right.” He makes no move towards the room.

At first, the nurse looks frustrated by his noncompliance, but then he thinks he must look pathetic because her face softens slightly and she places her hand on the door handle. “She’s expecting you too,” is all the warning he gets before she pushes the door open and goes inside. And she must expect him to follow, judging from the soft “Claire, someone’s here to see you” he hears.

He straightens his shoulders and ends up half-marching into the room, like a soldier’s walk, but it’s the only way he can get his feet to move. _Approach this like any other mission_. _That’s all you can do._

Claire turns her head as soon as he steps into the room, and locks her gaze onto his face. She’s sitting up in the hospital bed, and surrounded by monitors and other equipment that’s already been disconnected. All he can see is a few cuts and bruises on her face and arms, some of them still covered by bandages, and some mild burns. Otherwise, she looks okay, all things considered.

The nurse that let him into the room says something else to Claire, and then moves back over to him. “I’ll go and notify the doctor, so he can do his final check-up and prepare her release papers for you.” He barely has time to acknowledge her before she’s shutting the door behind him and then he’s all alone with his niece, and he feels so far from ready. But he _needs to be ready_.

“Hello, Claire.” His voice sounds like it hasn’t been used in a year, and with how difficult it is to get those simple words out, he almost believes it has been that long.

She continues to stare at him, with a blank look on her face. He almost wishes the heart monitor was hooked up, or that the tv was turned on, or anything. Anything to distract him. Anything to fill theheavy, oppressive _silence_ that chokes him and hinders his efforts to speak.

“I’m not your father.” It’s an obvious and completely unnecessary statement. But suddenly, it seems important to say it—to make that distinction—regardless.

“I know.” Her voice is quiet and resigned, but there’s no hint of bitterness or anger or anything like that, as far as he can tell. There’s not much of anything. He’s not yet sure what that means.

He chances a step closer. “Do you remember me?”

She stares down at her hands, which are clenching the thin sheets. “Yes.”

A shaky little laugh pushes its way out of his throat. He shifts slightly and shoves his hands inside his trenchcoat pockets, not knowing what else to do with them. “Of course. A stupid question. Even when you…were very small, you could always tell your father and I apart.”

The sounds of people and equipment moving down the hall and muffled voices leaks in through the closed door, and yet Castiel still feels like someone pressed the mute button on everything around him. Somehow the noise coming in from outside the room only makes it seem quieter, like it’s just highlighting the silence. Usually he prefers silence, but this kind of silence makes him uneasy. It’s not a peaceful quiet. It’s the calm before the storm. He waits, hoping someone will say something. No one does.

Desperate to hurry this along and fill the silence, he searches awkwardly for something to say. There’s a chair next to Claire’s bed. He gestures to it. “May I sit?” Hopefully sitting down will make him feel less lost and out of place than just standing in the middle of the room. Claire nods slowly, and he carefully seats himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he says softly. He doesn’t know why he says it. When Dean said much the same thing to him, he himself pointed out the uselessness of such a statement. But he needs to say something, and he can’t think of anything else.

Claire looks at him, and this time he can see the grief in her blue eyes. A stray thought hits him, and he remembers just how much her eyes really do resemble Jimmy’s. Which means they’re also his own eyes. It gets a lot more difficult to look her in the eye after that.

“Saying sorry won’t bring Mommy or Daddy back,” she tells him.

“You’re right. Nevertheless, I am.”

She tilts her head, and stares at him in confusion. And damn him if that doesn’t feel like a punch to the chest, because _it’s an exact mirror of what he does_. At least, according to other people. And he has _no idea where she picked that up_ , but it wasn’t from Jimmy.

“You didn’t have anything to do with it. Don’t be sorry.”

Maybe it’s because he’s trying to apologize for more than her parents’ deaths. Or maybe because she’s absolutely right. He didn’t have anything to do with this. In fact, he didn’t have anything to do with a lot of things. Thing that he should have had everything to do with. But he can’t _not_ feel sorry. Though being sorry isn’t enough, he knows. There isn’t an appropriate word. There isn’t an appropriate feeling. So he lowers his head slightly. “Alright.”

Claire surprises him by speaking again, just as he was preparing to sit in more awkward silence. “Are you going to take me to live with you?”

He raises his head. “Is that alright?”

“A man asked me that the other day, too,” she says. “I told him I was scared what would happen to me. I told him that Daddy trusted Uncle Cassie, and that Uncle Cassie was always good to me when I saw, so I said I didn’t mind.”

A breath of air rushes out of his mouth, and it’s only then that he realizes he was holding his breath, and that he had been afraid to hear her answer. Now that she’s given him a positive answer, he doesn’t actually know what to say.

“Okay.” He stands up.

\--

Castiel isn’t a fan of driving. Cars are confining and unreliable, and not to mention half of the people on the road drive so poorly it’s a wonder they can even get the car moving at all. This trip back to the house is particularly unpleasant and grating on his nerves. It’s long and quiet. Awkwardly quiet. Rarely does he ever drive with music (it’s usually too distracting for him), but he’s not sure if Claire likes listening to music or not, or what genre she would want. Soon after leaving the hospital, he asked and she said no, so he just left it at that. Normally he would at least light up a cigarette to calm himself, but he’s got enough decency not to smoke in a car with someone’s who’s just recovered from smoke inhalation, especially when that someone is his eight year-old niece who’s literally just lost everything.

A red Camaro speeds past them. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror he can see Claire, leaning against the door and staring out of the window. He’s not really expecting her to want to say anything, and she seems alright for the moment, so he continues to focus on the road. The silence gives him a chance to try and work out some kind of game plan. He doesn’t get very far.

He knows he needs to try and make Claire as comfortable as possible, and try to give her the most “normal” life possible. Not that he’s an expert, but he assumes that the more changes she has to make to her lifestyle, the more stressful and rough it’ll be for her. If he can help it, he wants to keep her from having to make any unnecessary changes. Obviously, there are some things he’s totally incapable of doing, but there are some things that are do-able. The only problem is that he knows what to do in theory, but he has no idea how to go about being a good guardian in practice.

A groan of frustration tries to escape, but he shuts his mouth and traps it. There’s so much he needs to do and he hasn’t the faintest idea where to start. Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell Jimmy and Amelia were thinking by naming him guardian.

First, he’ll just get her home. See if she wants any food. Fix up a room. Stuff like that. He’ll deal with the rest as it comes. Or, try to, at least.

“Uncle?”

Claire’s voice surprises him, and he glances up at the rearview mirror to see her staring right at him. “Yes?”

“Am I going to be a burden to you?”

He nearly steers the car into the path of an oncoming semi in the next lane. The question comes out of nowhere, and he feels his heart thudding in his chest in panic at the thought of having to answer that. “Why would you say that?” he says, with a voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything at first, and Castiel’s hands grip the steering wheel so tight he feels it might break. “I don’t know...” He hears her shifting against the seat. “You never came to see us anymore. When I asked why, Daddy said it was because you were busy and had a lot of problems.”

Of course Claire would have wondered about that. What exactly did his brother tell her, and how much? The thought that Jimmy and Amelia never told Claire what he did and where he was had never occurred to him. He doesn’t really have any way of knowing what Claire knows about him, short of asking her. Right now, that’s not something he’s looking forward to doing. He’s certainly not prepared for any kind of explanations. Once again, he’s lost in his own thoughts, and almost forgets to answer until the soft “uncle?” coming from the backseat prompts him to speak.

“No, Claire. You’re not a burden. Never,” is what he ends up saying. He tries to be convincing, but he thinks it comes out flat.

“Are you all better, then?”

The purring sound of the engine fills the car. It seems louder now, somehow. He shakes his head. “Yes, Claire.”

And he’ll have to be.

\--

When he finally pulls the car into his driveway and parks it in its usual spot, he starts to feel a little self-conscious. His house serves its purpose well enough, and he thinks it’s a decent house. Jimmy wasn’t a multi-millionaire or anything, but he was considerably more affluent than Castiel is. And Castiel knows that his own home is quite a bit less impressive than the one Claire is used to. She’s undoubtedly used to a lot more. But it’s the best he’s going to get, living mostly on disability checks and the occasional odd job (and also occasional help from Hannah, but he’s proud enough to be ashamed of that). To be honest, he’s just grateful it’s not falling apart or overrun with mold and bugs or anything like that.

As he leads her up the walkway and unlocks the front door, he feels the need to apologize. “Sorry it’s not much.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Claire shrug and wrap her arms around herself. “It’s fine. I’ve never seen your home, anyway.”

The door pushes open with a slight creak, and Castiel steps out of the way to allow Claire to go in first.

Watching Claire step tentatively into his house suddenly brings to light a problem Castiel hadn’t previously thought of. In retrospect, he really should have, and he’s not sure what he was expecting. But he didn’t think. And so here he is, only now thinking about the fact that Claire has no spare clothing—she has _nothing_ , really—and he hasn’t the faintest idea how to shop for young girls. After the shutting and locking the door (that’s always the first thing he does after coming inside) and making sure the chain is set, he flips on the first light switch he can find so that he can get a better look at Claire.

There she is, standing in the middle of the entryway, looking up at him with a somewhat uncertain look on her face. She’s wearing a simple white shirt with a blue hoodie and a pair of jeans. Nothing fancy or brand-new looking. Since the clothing she was admitted in was burned and she had nothing else, the hospital staff provided her with a change of clothing to wear. Where they got the clothes, Castiel doesn’t know. He’s not sure he wants to know. Regardless, it’s all she has.

Eventually he realizes they’ve both been standing there for far longer than what is probably acceptable, and he clears his throat. “I’ll….” He gestures helplessly. “I’ll fix the spare room for you. And find you something else to wear. To sleep in.” Surely he can find something else for her so that the poor girl won’t have to sleep in those clothes.

Claire nods and follows after him wordlessly. On the way, he gives her a very quick walkthrough of the house and shows her the kitchen-slash-dining room, the bathroom, his own bedroom, and some other essential locations. Tomorrow he’ll give her a more in-depth tour of his home. Well, technically it’s her home now, too. But right now, all he wants to do is get her situated and go sleep for as long as he can manage. It may be only late afternoon, but he didn’t sleep last night and he’s feeling more tired than he has in a while.

Fortunately, Hannah already helped him clean the spare room out, so basically all he needs to do is put some clean sheets on the bed, which is easy enough. He then leaves Claire sitting on the bed while he attempts to track down some semi-suitable clothes.

Upon returning to the spare room—Claire’s room, he reminds himself—he finds her in exactly the same spot he left her. He holds up his find: A plain gray turtleneck. He thinks it’s the smallest, tightest piece of clothing he owns. It’s not much, but he’s hoping the turtleneck will help prevent it from slipping off her shoulders. And it’s long enough that she can wear it as a dress. She’ll have to roll up the sleeves, though. “This is all I can find for the moment.” He hands it over and she takes it with a nod. “We’ll get you some more clothes soon. And…other things. Tomorrow. If you want.”

Another nod.

He scrubs a hand over his face and rubs at his eyes. “Are you hungry?” Because that seems like something he should do.

She shrugs.

Right. He’s going to assume that means “kind of,” and either way, she should probably eat something. She has meds she needs to take and taking them on an empty stomach isn’t good. Then again, he himself is the king of taking meds on an empty or mostly empty stomach. But he’s not going to encourage that behavior in Claire.

“I’ll make you something. I’ll leave you to…get settled in.” He takes a step back, and then spins around and leaves her alone in the room.

It’s becoming more obvious by the second that he must simply not be hard-wired to raise children, and that he’s painfully inept at this. His current dilemma involves staring inside the pantry, closing it, going to the refrigerator, staring inside, closing it, staring inside the pantry, and repeat. To be fair, there isn’t exactly much to choose from. That doesn’t make it any easier, because he still has no idea what kids like to eat. Applesauce? He doesn’t have any. Chocolate? That’s no good for a dinner. Pizza? Again, he doesn’t have any. And even if he had the ingredients to make it from scratch, he’s so far from being up to the challenge. Pancakes? Still more effort than he’s willing to go through right now. Peanut butter and jelly? That, he does have. Kids like that, right?

It’s a start.

By the time Claire sits down at the table Castiel has a sandwich fixed for her. With grape jelly, of course. Not jam. He slides it to her, along with a glass of water and a couple pills sitting on a napkin. “This is just about all I had,” he tells her. “I hope it’s alright. I’ll get groceries soon.” And then, he’s worried that it might not be okay. And he wants it to be okay. So he hurries to amend his statement. “If you don’t want it, I can order a pizza.”

“This is fine. Thanks,” she mumbles, looking down at the plate. Although she makes a face at the pills, she takes them without argument. Castiel is struck with the thought that Jimmy and Amelia must have done a very good job raising her. He didn’t expect anything else.

He rises to his feet and goes to retrieve his own medicine bottles from the bathroom cabinet. If he’s going to make Claire take her medicine, it’s only fair to take his own, he figures. Not that he thinks they’ll do him much good. They rarely do. But if he’s going to have to be responsible for a child, at least no one will be able to say he’s not responsible and not taking his meds.

Without thinking, he carries his own assortment of pill bottles back into the kitchen and sets them on the table before sitting back down with a glass of water for himself. He’d rather just take them dry, and get it over with that much sooner, but he’s gotten to the point where he hates taking pills so much that he can barely swallow them. He picks out his allotment, closes his eyes tightly, and takes them in all in one shot. He opens his eyes, and notices his mistake.

Claire is staring at him with a confused look on her face. The glass almost slips from his hand, but he sets it down before it falls. “Are you hurt too?”

The three little orange bottles provide a way for him to stall for time, and he looks down at them, making sure all of them are closed tightly and arranged neatly in a line. “No. No, I’m…” No words come to him. He’s what? Good question.

But Claire is still sitting across from him, still looking at him expectantly, so he can’t say nothing. He settles with a stiff “It’s complicated.” That’s the truth. “I’m fine.” That’s the truth too. Somewhat. Probably. It’s his truth. It has to be. Surely that counts for something.

The answer isn’t good enough for Claire. That much is obvious, and the curious frown on her face shows she has another question in development. Which is not a good thing. Because she’s a smart child and he’s fairly certain he knows exactly what she wants to ask. And that will only lead to more questions. There are few things he can think of that wants to do less than talk about this. Much less talk about this with his eight year-old niece who’s just lost her parents and who apparently knows very little about her uncle’s life. By all logic, in fact, she’s the one who has the right to feel fucked up. Talking about his perceived problems will only take away from Claire’s grief. Which would be far too selfish of him.

Just as she opens her mouth to ask her question, he opens his own to put a stop to it. “Finish that,” he snaps, pointing to her half-eaten sandwich. And okay, he really didn’t mean to snap. That’s not fair. “Please.” It’s supposed to soften the edge of his previous demand, but the word comes out more like a sigh and just makes it sound like he’s even more frustrated. Not that he isn’t frustrated, but it’s not with her, and she doesn’t need to think otherwise.

Claire lowers her eyes and pulls at a part of the crust. “Are you going to eat, too?”

Feeding himself honestly never even crossed his mind. Instead, he scoots his chair back, wincing at the horrible scraping noise the legs make when they slide across the tile. “Later,” he says. Later. Always later. Castiel swipes up his pill bottles and shoves them in his coat pocket. A quick glance at the microwave clock tells him that’s it’s a just a little past seven in the evening. Definitely late enough to smoke a cigarette before tackling the necessary evil of sleep. He has no idea what kind of curfew Jimmy and Amelia placed on Claire, or if she had any chores or any particular activities she was used to doing at certain times. Though, as irresponsible as it sounds, he doesn’t particularly care. As long as she doesn’t bother him or blow up the house. And he very much doubts that she will.

Once he’s standing, he gently pushes the chair back, being careful to minimize the scraping noise this time. “You are welcome to…make yourself at home. Such as it is. You may look around, watch tv, sleep when you wish. Do whatever you’d like. All I ask right now is that you don’t make loud noises and don’t mess with anything.” It occurs to him that he’ll have to set some more thorough house rules at some point, which isn’t something he’s looking forward to doing. That’s another thing to deal with later. And besides, he figures that she deserves some slack for the first couple nights, all things considered.

Claire looks at him, but doesn’t say anything. So he takes that as his cue to continue. “If you need me for anything, I’ll be outside for a while, on the back porch.” Oh. Yeah. “If I’m already in my room, just make sure to knock first.” That’s probably pretty important and should be mentioned. Because the last thing she needs is to get attacked by her uncle in the middle of the night after losing her parents.

To her credit, Claire just nods and doesn’t question him. Which makes things easier in some ways. But it also makes things more awkward, because it leaves him with nothing else to say.

“Right.” He coughs. “Well…then. Have a…good night.” It takes another few seconds of standing there like a statue before he actually turns and starts to head for the back door.

A soft “goodnight” comes from behind him just as he reaches for the door knob. But instead of acknowledging it, he opens the door and steps outside. After all, once again, he doesn’t know what else to say.

\--

Screaming. Someone is screaming. That’s the first thing Castiel becomes aware of as he’s jolted back to consciousness. For once, however, it’s not the sound of his own screams that wake him up. That’s the second thing he realizes. He sits up and scrambles to free himself from the sheets. Then he blinks sleepily and squints in the direction of the bright red numbers.

_3:43._

He thinks he’d finally fallen asleep sometime around midnight. So, almost four hours. Better than nothing. Likely all the sleep he’s going to get now that he’s awake. Rarely does he ever get to go _back_ to sleep after he’s been woken up. With a tired groan, he gets to his feet and tries to remember why he’s even awake in the first place.

Another scream pierces his ears. This time, he’s together enough to figure out where the screams are coming. Claire. He spends almost a full minute debating on whether it would be appropriate for him to go and see if she’s okay. The decision is made for him when another particularly loud scream comes from the direction of her room.

He hurries down the hall and pushes open the door to her after two quick knocks. It’s too dark to see much of anything. In order to avoid overwhelming Claire with too much brightness, he turns the hall light on rather than the light in her bedroom. “Claire,” he calls out, voice still rough and low from sleep. He clears his throat and tries again. “Claire?”

Claire shoots up in bed with a cry that’s cut short, gripping the sheets so tightly that Castiel half-expects them to rip. In the dim light filtering in from the hallway, he can just see the scared look on her face, accompanied by fresh tear tracks. A pang of guilt mixed with sympathy hits him. Guilt because he can easily guess what she’s dreaming out, and there’s nothing he can do to make the nightmare any less real. Sympathy because he’s well acquainted with the feeling of waking up screaming and crying.

Claire gives him a distinct “what are you doing here?” look, and Castiel shifts on his feet. “Are you alright?” What a stupid question, he thinks. Clearly she’s not alright.

“Yes.” Damn it all, because he may not be good at reading people, but even he can see the protective walls shooting up around her. Which isn’t at all what he wants.

“Do you…” More awkward shuffling. He’s not sure whether he should keep standing here in the doorway or sit on the edge of her bed. But he also doesn’t want to intrude on her space, so he continues to stand. “Would you like to talk about it?”

The answer is almost immediate. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Not that he particularly wants to talk about this either, but he’s willing to try if it will help Claire.

“Yes,” she insists. “I’m fine.” Her head turns away from him entirely, and she stares at the window across from the door.

Castiel withholds a sigh. There isn’t much he can do. He won’t push her. All he can do, he supposes, is trust that she knows what’s best for herself and hope she’ll come to him if she needs to. “Alright. Well…if you change your mind…” He lets the sentence trail off, and retreats to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. After all, there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep now.

Tomorrow—today, really—he’ll do right by Claire. Maybe introduce her to Hannah. Take her shopping for clothes and other necessities. Help her settle in. Things like that. Once he gets her life back on track, he’ll worry about his own.

\--

The morning passes as uneventfully as Castiel expects. Claire comes padding into the kitchen sometime around eight in the morning, when Castiel is slumped over at the table and nursing what must be his fifth or sixth cup of coffee. He’s only on his second cigarette though, so he considers that to be an accomplishment. It’s only when she makes a face that he remembers his newly self-imposed “no smoking in the house” rule, and he ruefully rushes to put it out and open a window.

Claire refuses his offer to help her take a shower, but afterwards she does ask him to help her redress her burns. Honestly, she could probably do it by herself because chances are that she did a better job listening to the doctors than he did. Nevertheless, he agrees to help her, even though his hands shake so badly he has to redo some of the bandaging several times, and Claire ends up noticing.

“Why are your hands shaking?” she asks, rather innocently, from where she’s seated backwards on a chair he’d dragged into the bathroom, while he tries to tend to the nastiest burn on her upper back.

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Or rather, he _can’t_ answer that. So he swallows heavily, clenches his jaw, and continues working, doing his best to keep his hands still while he applies the burn gel and then the bandages. Thankfully, she doesn’t try to ask again, and the rest of the procedure is spent in silence. He’s also grateful for the fact that she’s sitting facing away from him as well as the mirror and thus is unable to see how pale his face must be.

Hannah is a very good friend, Castiel decides. She simply shows up at his doorstep with the fancy Starbucks coffee that she knows he likes way too much (even though he’s never said anything) and donuts for Claire, carrying it all like she’s holding a bomb rather than breakfast.

“I assumed most children are fond of donuts. They’re sweet. And warm,” she says by way of explanation, before he can actually question her. He’s not so sure donuts are the best breakfast, but Claire is happy with them, and he manages to eat a couple as well (since he never did eat last night), so he doesn’t say anything against them.

As expected, Hannah takes meeting Claire as seriously as she takes everything else. Like she’s meeting a fellow soldier rather than a child. Castiel doesn’t mind, and Claire doesn’t seem to either. It’s somewhat reassuring to know he’s not the only one who’s almost completely inept with children. Though, Hannah doesn’t have any young nieces or nephews or cousins in her close family, so she at least has an excuse. Still, Hannah’s presence seems to pique Claire’s curiosity.

“So are you two like…together?” The question comes out of nowhere, while the three of them are seated in the living room.

“ _No_ ,” they both answer at the same time. Castiel looks up and see’s Claire’s suspicious squint directed towards him from across the room.

“She’s a good friend, Claire,” he adds. “I’ve known her for a long time.”

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence as she considers her next question. “How did you two meet? Daddy never said anything about her.”

Castiel shares a quick glance with Hannah. “At my last job.” Once again, it’s the wrong thing to say.

“Where did you work? Daddy never told me what you did, and neither have you.”

Another glance at Hannah. She nods her head towards him as if to say _I’ll let you answer as you please._

It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to answer. Claire prompts him by impatiently repeating the question.

“I…flew airplanes,” he ends up saying. Still the wrong thing to say.

“You did?” Claire leans forward in her seat. Now she’s interested. “That sounds so cool! I’ve only been on a plane once, when we went on a mission trip to Mexico, but I don’t remember it very well. Why did you stop?”

If she says anything else he doesn’t hear it. Because all he can hear is the sound of fire, spreading too quickly. Explosions, blaring alarms, falling. The sound of falling through the air. Louder than the explosions. And then—

“Claire, why don’t you tell me about yourself? If you’re living with Castiel, I would like to get to know you as well.”

He inhales sharply. Too sharply, and he has to cough for several seconds before he gets his breath back. There’s bile rising in his throat, and he swallows it back down. It occurs to him that Hannah is entertaining Claire by trying to coax her into talking about subjects in school. Or something like that. He’s not entirely sure. It’s like they’re on tv, and the volume is turned down to just barely above mute. Regardless, it becomes obvious that Hannah must have picked up on his discomfort and changed the subject in an attempt to bring him back to reality before he was too far gone. Not for the first time, he feels incredible gratitude towards his friend. Also for the fact that it was just a mild attack. At least compared to some of his others. Had he gotten too far lost, there would have been little Hannah could have done. And he really could do without having a full-blown panic attack with Claire present.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His hands fall back to rest in his lap. Hands that he didn’t even realize had been covering his ears. The ringing fades a little, and he angles his entire body away from the couch Hannah and Claire are sitting on.

After that, he doesn’t really feel like getting out and doing anything.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite her initial reluctance to see him take on his niece, Hannah is doing her best to support him and help him out. One of her suggestions was that he take Claire to attend service at the church her family frequented. Castiel isn’t sure whether he’s even religious anymore, but Jimmy certainly was. It seems like a good idea. Perhaps the people at her church can offer her some form of comfort that he himself is unable to. When he mentions it to Claire, she doesn’t shoot it down, and he takes that as a sign to proceed. As much as he doesn’t look forward to it, he’ll suck it up and sit through the service for Claire. It’s just a church service. Besides, he thinks, what’s the worst that can happen?

Jimmy’s church is a moderate sized building. Impressive, but still retaining some humility. Big enough to attract a good-sized crowd, yet small enough that the parishioners pretty much all know each other. It’s situated on the outskirts of Jimmy’s district, but still accessible by a roughly thirty-minute bus ride and a short walk. Which means that Castiel doesn’t have to drive, and that’s a good thing. As far as he’s concerned, anyway.

He feels awkward and out of his element when he and Claire actually enter the building, though he figures that’s probably because it has to have been at least six years since he’s been to a church. No, wait. Has it? He’s been to church a time or two after moving back to Chicago, hasn’t he? He can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, either way. Regardless of how many years it’s been, it’s been a long time since he actually sat in a church and felt anything other than doubt and uncertainty. This is for Claire’s benefit, so hopefully it will help her. If it does, he’s willing to sit through it for her.

Ideally, the two of them would slip in and sit through the service without drawing attention to themselves, but it becomes clear very quickly that that isn’t going to happen. In retrospect, he knows he should have realized the sheer unlikelihood of such a scenario. Because the second they walk through the door, a chubby balding man—the pastor, he assumes—approaches him, along with several other people at his side.

“Jimmy? No, no, that can’t be. You’re Castiel, aren’t you? And Claire. Claire, dear, it’s good to see you again. I’m sorry it’s under such circumstances, though”

Castiel’s only response is to incline his head slightly. At his side, Claire lowers her head and mumbles something Castiel doesn’t catch.

The pastor continues. “Jimmy spoke often of you, but I’m ashamed to admit it slipped my mind that the two of you were identical twins. When you walked in, I thought for a moment God had performed a miracle and given him back to us.”

“Oh.” What else is he supposed to say to that? He’s not sure he believes in God anymore, but he thinks that if God is real, then He’s clearly not interested in performing miracles. If He is alive, then He’s nowhere to be found. Castiel doesn’t say any of this, of course. “I’m just Castiel,” is all he says.

The pastor clasps his hands together and bows his head slightly. “Forgive me. I’m sorry for your loss. This must be very hard for you and Claire. We’re glad you brought Claire here again, and of course, we’re glad to have you join us as well.”

And then the pastor introduces himself, and suddenly everyone who was crowded around him start introducing themselves offering their apologies as well. As if it’s supposed to mean anything to him. He won’t even remember their names. The small talk that follows is fine when it’s directed at Claire, and he’s content to stand there and let Claire talk to these people that probably know her better than he does. Which is kind of a painful thought, but it’s his own fault, so he brushes it aside and doesn’t let it show.

But when the people start getting curious and the questions start shifting to him, it’s not fine anymore.

“So, what exactly do you do for a living, Castiel?” a successful-looking middle-aged woman asks him. _Can you take care of Claire properly?_

“I’m…between jobs.” It sounds better than _I’m an unemployed wreck living on disability checks_ , at least.

An elderly man speaks up this time. “If I recall correctly, Jimmy said you served, right?”

It takes Castiel a second to realize what the man is asking him. As soon as he realizes, he feels those familiar walls raise up around him. “Yes,” he bites out. The man looks expectantly at him, and Castiel forces out a quick “Air Force. Six years.”

An approving nod. Castiel tries not to laugh.

“Where’d you serve, son?” Another man asks. Of course they can’t leave it at that.

Castiel tries to speak three times before he’s able to answer the question. The first time no sound is produced in his throat. The second time he almost says “hell.” The third time he almost snaps at the man because really, it’s none of his damn business. And why on earth does it even matter to them?

“Afghanistan. Two tours.” His voice is hoarse, and the words are barely louder than a whisper. He can feel the sweat on his face, but no one else seems uncomfortable—in fact, everyone seems quite oblivious—so he must be the only one feeling the heat.

And then a young boy speaks up. He must really not have been paying attention, because he hadn’t even noticed that there was a child.

“Did you kill the bad people?” the boy asks.

Damn it. He can’t answer that. He can’t answer that. _Run_ , his mind tells him. There’s talking around him—it sounds like it could be the child’s parents admonishing him for the question, and maybe someone’s speaking to him as well—but he doesn’t really hear any of it. _This was a bad idea. This is a bad idea. You need to get out of here now._

Someone reaches out and pats his shoulder. His body goes rigid in order to keep from tearing their hand off. “Don’t worry, dear,” a female voice says, and Castiel thinks it’s the same woman who asked him about his occupation. “God will reward you for your service.”

This time, he fails to keep a bitter laugh from tearing out of his throat. He quickly tries to cut it off, and it turns into a cough. “I’ve already been ‘rewarded’ _generously_ ,” he quips. His heart pounds in his chest, and the urge to run hits him harder. But before he can, the pastor announces that it’s time for the service to start, and Castiel has never felt so grateful. Claire is being cornered by a small group of people several feet away, and he goes over and gently ushers her away and towards a seat near the back of the room.

The service itself starts out like he would expect. Most of it he tunes out, but he pays enough attention to follow suit when everyone bows their head in prayer. Throughout it all, his heart is still racing, despite efforts to calm himself. At some point—he doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there—the pastor catches his attention.

“And now, friends, let’s offer our prayers to the Novak family, who are with us today. Claire is here with her uncle, Castiel. As you all know, God took Jimmy and Amelia home earlier this week, but we’re still mourning their loss. We ask the Lord to be with their family through this difficult time, and we ask that Claire continue to have a speedy recovery.”

And okay, that’s fine. He can deal with this. Claire needs the comfort. Regardless of his own conflicted beliefs, there’s nothing wrong with this. He can ignore all the people turning to look at them. All this attention is nothing.

But the pastor’s not done yet. “We also ask the Lord to offer his blessings. Castiel, I’ve been told, has fought for and served our country bravely.”

That’s not fine. That’s so far from being fine. He has no right bringing that up. _No right._

“…He has given his time and risked his life to keep us safe and protect our country’s freedom and values...”

He blinks, and then he’s high in the air, looking down at ramshackle houses and sand dunes in the distance. Fire. People running.

“…He has done the Lord’s work…”

Castiel’s eyes squeeze shut, as if that will somehow block out the images. Then he hears the screaming. He can’t actually hear them screaming, but he knows they are.

“….a great service to us…”

_What have you done?! What have you done?! What are you doing?! Why, why, why?!_

Now he’s down there with them, and he feels the fear, the heat, the flames, gunshots, explosions, pain, pain, _pain—_

“…We must offer our thanks and our prayers…”

“Uncle?”

Claire’s quiet voice barely registers in his mind, and neither does it occur to him that she must have noticed something strange. He can’t do this here. He needs to get out of here. _He needs to leave now._ The contents of his stomach churn in warning, and it’s an automatic reaction to clamp his hand over his mouth. As soon as he stands, his vision blurs and he can hardly hear or see anything around him, and moving seems impossible. Still, he must push his way past the pews and churchgoers and tumble into a bathroom, because the next thing he knows he’s hunched over a toilet and breathing heavily. There’s a bad taste in his mouth, and he swallows the saliva that had collected. After he does that, something rises up in his esophagus and that familiar acidic taste hits his mouth again. He leans forward and throws up. Again, he thinks. Judging from the existing taste in his mouth, this must be at least his second time vomiting, although he has no recollection of it.

“Uncle?”

Castiel looks up, startled. Claire is here with him. She reaches out—hesitantly, he notes—and touches his back. The second he feels her fingers brush the tan fabric of his coat, he flinches violently. “Don’t touch me,” he hisses.

There’s a yelp, and the fingers vanish. “Sorry,” she mumbles. He can’t see the look on her face, but he’s willing to bet that she’s pouting, if the hurt tone of her voice is anything to go by.

Guilt tugs at him again, and he sighs. When he’s fairly sure that he’s not going to vomit again, he sits up straighter, flushes the toilet, and turns so that he’s facing Claire. She’s hovering a few feet away, with her hands halfway raised, as if she wants to do something but isn’t sure what to do. His face feels hot and sticky, so he wipes at it with the sleeve of his coat before taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry Claire.” His voice doesn’t seem to want to work above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. ”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he lies smoothly.

Claire frowns. “I thought you were going to pass out, but then you looked like you were going to puke too. You stood up and looked like you wanted to move, but I thought you might need help, so I led you to the bathroom.” She looks down, and crosses her arms behind her back, shuffling her feet a bit. The movement makes Castiel think she wants to say something else, so he waits. “I’m sorry I came into the boy’s room. Mommy and Daddy always told me I shouldn’t because it’s not ‘socially acceptable,’ but I didn’t want to leave you alone…”

Her guilty, child-like explanation and confession forces a small smile to twitch across his lips and he lets out a small huff that could almost be a laugh. “It’s alright, Claire. I appreciate your concern.” Really, it’s kind of touching. Also, that explains how he got here. Somewhat, anyway. The last thing he remembers clearly is the pastor speaking about him and Claire. Hell, at first he didn’t even remember being in the church at all.

“Why did you get sick?” she asks innocently. “Did you eat something bad?”

“Maybe.” Humoring her probably isn’t the best thing. She’s told old to be humored. But it’s not like he can explain it to her, either. So he’s left with little choice.

With another sigh, he slowly pushes himself to his feet. When he turns to the sink to clean himself up a bit, he keeps his eyes downcast, doing his best to avoid looking in the mirror. Because he’s not sure what he’d see this time. Half-heartedly drying his hands off on his coat, he turns back to Claire. “If you don’t mind, I would like to return home now.”

He receives an agreeable nod in response.

It’s almost eleven o’clock by the time they get on a bus to take them back to Castiel’s neighborhood. The bus is more crowded than he would prefer, considering how on-edge he still feels. Every little noise makes him jump, and every little movement makes him feel like he’s about to be attacked. Claire either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. She sits quietly next to Castiel, in the back of the bus, kicking her feet back and forth.

They’re about five minutes away from their bus stop when Claire speaks up. “I don’t want to go back,” she confesses.

“What?” Castiel squints at her in confusion.

“I don’t want to go back to church,” she repeats.

He shifts in the uncomfortable plastic seat so that he’s fully turned towards her. “I was under the impression that you attended church every week with your parents, for many years.”

Claire’s feet stop kicking. “Yeah.”

“Then what’s the problem? Why stop now?”

“That’s the problem.” She speaks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I went to church…with my parents. Every week. It feels wrong, now.”

Of course. “Ah. I see.” Castiel folds his hands in his lap and turns away, facing the empty seat across from him. “I’m not your father.” He supposes he should have figured the problem would be with him. Not that he ever intended to be Jimmy’s replacement or anything. “I apologize. I did not intend to try and become him.”

“No! It’s not that…” She trails off, and Castiel tilts his head in her direction to prompt her to speak. “It’s just…I went to church, and did everything Mommy and Daddy told me to do to be good…and they still died.” Her voice goes quiet at the end, and Castiel thinks he understands her problem. A problem he himself has struggled with in the past.

She continues. “I don’t understand…why would God do that? They told me there was a good reason, that it was all God’s will, but I don’t understand it. My parents were good people. Why would God take them away and leave me?” As she speaks, her voice takes on a more desperate pitch, and she looks up at Castiel like she’s hoping he’ll have all the answers.

“I don’t know, Claire.” It’s a lackluster answer, but it’s all he can give. He tries to ignore the tremble in her voice or the tears he sees forming in her eyes.

He hears her sniff, and hears the sound of fabric rustling. Which indicates she’s probably wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t know if God is there anymore, or if He cares. I don’t think He does. I think that if He cared, he wouldn’t have let my parents die. He would have made sure they made it out, too. That’s why…that’s why I don’t want to go back to church. That’s why it feels wrong.”

Castiel nods once. “I understand.”

“Is that bad of me?” And damn, she sounds so unsure that it makes Castiel feel worse for her.

He shakes his head. “No. I wondered the same questions before, too. You’re not alone in that. If you don’t want to go back, we won’t go back.” Secretly, he’s relieved, but he doesn’t tell her that.

“Okay.” She scoots a little closer to him. Maybe she’s just seeking comfort wherever she can get it, and maybe it’s too early to tell. But maybe it’s a little bit of progress. Or at the very least, maybe they’re not going backwards.

\--

“There’s a man at the door.”

“Hmm.”

“Uncle Castiel _._ ”

“Hmmm...”

“I know you told me not to bother you but—are you listening? Hey, no, don’t roll over! Uncle, _he won’t go away!_ ”

“Mmmh.”

“Come on!”

Something is shaking him. Any trace of sleep in his system disappears, and he twists around to grab his attacker. His actions are met with a high-pitched squeal, and when he comes back to reality he finds himself sitting up in his bed, gripping Claire by the wrist. Tightly, by the look on her face. Startled, he sucks in a breath and releases his hold. Claire, he notes, backs up instantly.

Castiel swears. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean anything, but you startled me. Did I hurt you?” He _really_ needs to set out those ground-rules. But that’s more effort than he’s willing to go through right now.

“I’m okay,” she replies.

Sighing heavily, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed while he rubs at his eyes. “I told you to knock,” he says through a yawn. It doesn’t matter how much or how little sleep he gets. Even on the rare days he manages to get a full night’s worth or more of sleep, he always wakes up feeling like he never slept at all.

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Then I also told you not to shake me like that.”

She crosses her arms. “I called your name. You wouldn’t wake up.”

Another sigh escapes him. “What do you need, Claire?” After getting home from the disaster at the church, he still felt sick. All he wanted was to come home and sleep until he felt better. Or until he had to get up and get some food for Claire. Whichever happened to come first. His stomach feels calmer, but he’s still just as anxious and tired. Now, add irritated to the mix as well.

Claire huffs. “I told you. There’s a man at the door.”

“So what do you need me for?”

“Mommy and Daddy never allowed me to answer the door unless it was someone I knew.”

If he’s being fair, that’s probably for the best. To think, he was going to tell her to go answer it. The dangers of letting a small child answer the door never occurred to him. There’s another of the many reasons why he never had children of his own.

No matter how much he rubs at his eyes, his eyelids still feel like they’re full of lead. “So ignore it. I’m not expecting company.”

“He won’t leave!” she protests. “He’s been out there for several minutes.” As if to support her point, a new series of knocks can be heard faintly, coming from the outside the front door.

A string of incoherent grumbling passes his lips as he slowly makes his way out of his bedroom and towards the front door. For someone to be knocking at his door on a Sunday afternoon, it better be important.

He doesn’t even look to see who it is before flings the door open with more force than is strictly necessary. “ _What?_ ” he growls. It’s far from polite, but he really couldn’t care less right now. The mid-day sun is way too bright compared to the comforting darkness of his bedroom, and he brings up a hand to shield his eyes.

“We gotta stop meeting like this, man.”

The hand over his eyes falls limply to his side. He squints against the still too-bright sunlight until his eyes adjust and he finally sees who’s standing on his doorstep. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

\--

“What are you doing on my doorstep at one in the afternoon on a Sunday?”

Dean chuckles. “Hey, Castiel. Not even going to say hi?”

Castiel stares. The social worker is dressed casually this time, wearing a blue and gray plaid shirt and faded jeans instead of a suit. “What do you want?” he repeats, voice laced with noticeably more annoyance the second time.

The man shrugs nonchalantly in response, as if he’s not all that concerned with answering. Anger and impatience bubble up inside Castiel, and he’s just about to ask again. Fortunately, Dean chooses to speak up. “I’m just here for a visit.” The answer is no more satisfying than no answer at all.

“I didn’t know the DCFS worked on Sundays.”

“I’m here on my own time,” Dean says immediately. “But you know, we gotta have flexible schedules.” He chuckles. “Sometimes it’s hard to catch people any other time. You have to be sneaky.” Castiel does not laugh.

“ _Then what do you want?_ ” Castiel hisses, almost desperately.

Dean lets out a breath. “Alright, touchy, touchy. Someone piss in your Wheaties this morning?”

The comment makes no sense, and it only further irritates Castiel. His eyes narrow and he frowns as he tries to work out what Dean is saying. “I didn’t have any ‘Wheaties’ this morning, although I don’t understand who would urinate in a bowl of cereal and what that would have to do with anything.”

Despite himself, Dean bursts out laughing. Five seconds into Dean’s impromptu laughing fest, Castiel is fed up enough that he’s tempted to slam the door in the other man’s face. Dean seems to sense this, however, for he takes a few deep breathes to calm himself down and places a hand on Castiel’s door to keep him from closing it. “Sorry, sorry. Look, I’m just here because I like to make a habit of ‘unofficially’ visiting all my cases before I ‘officially’ visit them. Kind of get a feel for things, you know? See how things are going when they’re not expecting me.”

Castiel gestures to himself. “And now you’ve seen me. Is that sufficient?”

“Damn,” Dean huffs, though there’s no real malice to the curse. “You’re grumpy when you wake up. Although you’re at least dressed properly this time. Well, more or less.” He indicates to the rumpled white dress shirt and black pants that Castiel never bothered to change out of.

There’s a brief second in which Castiel wonders whether it’s really that obvious that he just woke up or whether Dean is just perceptive, and then the other man continues speaking. “Anyway, I came partly to give you these.”

Dean bends over and the sound of rustling plastic reaches Castiel’s ears. Then he straightens back up and he’s holding a couple plastic bags. Bags Castiel hadn’t even noticed were sitting at Dean’s feet. He eyes them curiously. “What are these?”

The bags are thrust at him. “Bags of stuff,” Dean replies helpfully. “Look and see.”

Cautiously, as if something inside is going to jump out and bite him, he takes one of the sacks and peeks inside. What he finds appears to be a variety of children’s clothing.

“For Claire,” Dean supplies, in case that isn’t obvious enough. “Thought you might be able to use these. No offense, but I had the feeling you can’t really afford to drop the money on a new wardrobe for her.”

Castiel glares up at Dean. “I’m not interested in a pity hand-out.” He tries to hand the bag back but it’s pushed right back into his hands.

“Dude, you’re not my charity case of the week,” Dean counters. “This isn’t an attack on your competence. It’s what I do for a living. It’s my job to make sure that girl in there is properly cared for. So here.” He gives the sack in Castiel’s hands a quick pat. “Properly cared for. Well, a start, anyway. Come on, just let her look through it, see if she likes anything. I, uh, had help picking these out this time, so they should look better than what she’s got now.”

Something Dean says sparks Castiel’s curiosity, and he zeroes in on it, narrowing his eyes. “Wait. Were you the one that provided the clothing she has now?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck and suddenly has trouble making eye-contact with Castiel. “Well, yeah. I mean, when I interviewed her—right after your interview, but I guess you didn’t know that—I asked what her sizes were. Figured she’d need something to wear out of the hospital, at least.”

No other words come to mind, so Castiel just mumbles a “thank you” and hopes that will do.

“Yeah, no problem.” Dean glances back at Castiel. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you haven’t bought her anything else yet?”

The plastic bag he’s holding suddenly becomes fascinating again. Apparently that’s enough of an answer.

That brings another little laugh out of Dean. “Well, there you go then. There’s some other stuff in there too. Useful stuff, I guess.”

Castiel frowns. “How much did this cost? I take it you paid out of your own pocket.” His mind is already starting to calculate the minimum amount Dean might have spent. Because he meant it when he said he didn’t want to be a charity case.

The other man seems to pick up on what Castiel is thinking, waving a dismissive hand as if to banish the thoughts. “Don’t worry about it, man. It’s mostly thrift store stuff. Besides, my brother’s a lawyer. Makes good money. He pitched in.”

He’s not entirely certain whether that fact makes it better or worse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway.” Dean clears his throat and continues. “We gonna make a habit of standing on your doorstep longer than necessary too? Or are you going to let me come inside? I just want to talk for a bit before I actually have to come and judge you and stuff.”

Sighing heavily, Castiel steps back to allow Dean inside for the second time. “Fine,” he huffs. Considering Dean just showed up on his doorstep bearings gifs, he doesn’t really have a good excuse to slam the door in his face. “Just make it quick.”

As soon as the door is closed, Claire pokes her head around the corner. “Uncle? Who was that at the door?”

Dean grins and is pushing his way past Castiel and over to Claire before Castiel can speak. “Hey!” he calls softly, kneeling down to her level. “I remember you. Remember me?”

Recognition quickly dawns on Claire’s face and she actually smiles softly. “You’re the man who came to the hospital.”

“Yep! That’s me, I’m Dean. How you doing?”

And Castiel can’t help but notice that the man’s playful demeanor seems a lot more genuine—less mocking—when he’s dealing with Claire. Bringing a hand up to cover a yawn, he leans against the wall and watches their interactions for a few moments. Something that feels like jealousy (but absolutely _can’t_ be jealousy) tugs at him. Dean doesn’t even know Claire and yet he has such an easy time talking to her, and can even get her to smile after speaking six words to her. He lets his eyes slip shut as he listens to the sound Dean and Claire’s voices, though he tunes out the actual words. It’s surprisingly peaceful, as far as background noise goes.

“Tired?”

With a frown, he opens his eyes halfway to find Dean standing up and facing him. “I’m always tired,” he replies, letting a hint of annoyance into his voice.

“I’ve got a few more bags in my car, still. You want to help me carry ‘em in?” Dean gestures with his thumb towards the front window, and Castiel looks out to see the black car, which he can only assume is Dean’s, parked in his driveway.

“More?” he echoes. “You don’t need to provide us with everything, Dean.”

Dean laughs his comment off. “Oh, believe me, this ain’t even close to being everything you’ll end up needing. Now come on. Be a good host.” Seemingly without thinking, he reaches out and nudges Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel flinches violently away from Dean’s touch, and if he weren’t already leaning against the wall he’d probably take a step back. Still, he straightens and presses his body as close to the wall as he can. His vision whites out for a split second and when it returns he sees Dean staring at him with a look of concern and confusion on his face, hand still raised in mid-air between them.

Guiltily, Dean drops his hand. He looks like he wants to ask something along the lines of “what the hell was that about?” But instead he just offers a quick “sorry” and steps back.

They stare at each other for several long seconds before Castiel takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and then moves towards the door. “Fine.” He glances over at Claire, who is standing patiently in the same spot, looking over at the two of them with a curious look on her face. “Claire, wait here, please.”

The instant they get outside, Castiel can tell Dean is one of those kinds of people who is very proud of his car. Dean doesn’t even have to say anything. He just has this certain smile on his face when he approaches the vehicle, and he runs a hand along it fondly before popping open the trunk.

Castiel regards the vehicle. A classic muscle car. “This isn’t the kind of car I would expect a state employee to be driving.”

Dean huffs. “Dude, I can’t tell whether that’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult.”

Castiel shrugs half-heartedly. “An observation.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks around. Being outside like this is making him feel exposed, especially since he didn’t bother to put on a pair of shoes over his socks.

“Well, Baby’s a lot better than some fancy piece of crap Prius or whatever,” Dean replies, giving the car another affectionate pat before reaching in and pulling out a few more bags. They look heavier than the last set, and Dean hands them off to Castiel one-by-one.

“It’s a nice car,” he says stiffly, because it seems like a good thing to say. “You must take good care of it.”

Dean grins, brushing off Castiel’s almost mechanical response in order to give more praise to his car. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? ’67 Chevy Impala. Been on the road nearly fifty years and she’s still running like she’s new. I guarantee any of these new model cars won’t last that long.”

Castiel hums in response. “Is that everything?” he asks once both of them are carrying three bags. He certainly hopes so, because this seems like an awful lot.

“Yep,” Dean confirms, gently shutting the trunk and expertly locking the doors with one hand.

Once they get back inside and set the rest of the bags together, Claire comes over and pokes at them. “What are these?” she asks.

“Things for you,” Castiel answers in an unintentionally clipped tone. He can’t help it. There’s still a sore spot, and sense of guilt that comes from not being able to provide even basic clothing for Claire, and needing a virtual stranger’s help. “Be sure to thank Dean.”

Claire kneels down in front of the pile and shifts through a few of the contents. Clothing, some books and dvds, and other things. “Oh,” she says softly, ducking her head a bit as she fixes the items she displaced. “Thank you, Mr. Dean.”

Dean laughs, the grin returning to his face. “Don’t mention it, kid. I know what it’s like to have to start from nothing. It’s a lot easier when you swallow your pride and ask for help. I know, because I never did.” Castiel has the distinct feeling that last part is directed at him, and he scowls lightly.

The social worker gestures to the pile of bags sitting in the middle of the floor. “You got a place to put this stuff, or were you planning on leaving it in the way? I’ll take it to Claire’s room if you show me the way.

It takes roughly five minutes to get all the clothes and such set up in an unobtrusive part of the small guest room that’s now Claire’s room. “You can look through it all more thoroughly later,” Dean tells her. “Pick out the things you like, see if they fit. Then I’m sure your uncle will be happy to hang it all up and put everything away for you, later.”

The last sentence is said with an accusatory glare directed at Castiel, to which Castiel returns full-force. But he does nod eventually, then glances around the bare room. “There’s no good place here to put any of the books or other things. “I have space in my library. Claire can store them there until I find something better for her.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You have a library?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, irritation seeping into his voice. Because _that’s what he just said._ Some of the irritation fades, however, when he sees Claire’s curious head-tilt, and he remembers that Claire has basically been either camped out in the living room or in her bedroom since she arrived. He still hasn’t actually given her a proper tour of the house. Vaguely, he remembers asking her to stay out of any room in which the door is closed. The door to the library has been kept firmly shut. It’s not that he thinks she’ll mess with anything, or that he doesn’t want her wandering around. It’s just that he doesn’t want to have to explain anything. “I will show you.”

The library is secluded, up the short flight of stairs and at the very end of the hall. Whenever he retreats there after a particularly bad nightmare, it sometimes almost feels as if he’s escaping. (It’s never quite far enough, though.)One of the reasons he likes it so much. It’s not a huge room, but it’s filled with bookcases and it’s more than big enough to suit his purposes. An irrational part of him doesn’t want to be sharing this with Dean, or even Claire, but he pushes that part of himself to the back of his mind.

There’s a small bookshelf towards the back of the room, mostly empty save for a few books on the top shelf. He goes over to it and gently removes the books. “You may put them here,” he says, setting the stack in his hands onto the lone table in the room.

“Damn.”

Castiel turns around to see Dean staring at one of his bookcases, the bags he had been carrying forgotten by the door. The bookcase in question is his one for foreign languages, one of his largest collections. Dean seems impressed. He pulls one of the books from the shelf and flips through it. The action causes a twinge of anger to surge through Castiel, but he pushes that down as well, reasoning that Dean isn’t actually hurting anything.

“What’s with all these?” he asks. “You’ve got books written in fucking Klingon and every damn language under the sun.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t have any books written in…Klingon. Whatever that is. That one in your hand is Russian.”

Dean balks at him. “Seriously? You’ve never seen Star Trek.”

He shakes his head.

“Man…” Dean shakes his head in return, then goes back to the book in his hand. He holds it up slightly. “Can you actually read this?”

“Yes.”

“Can you read all of these?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“Seriously?” Dean takes a second glance at the bookcase, trying to pick out all the different languages.

Castiel nods stiffly. “That is what I said.”

Dean whistles. “We’ve got a regular fucking polyglot here.”

By this time, Claire has wandered over to Dean, no doubt curious as to what’s going on. “What’s a polyglot?”

“It means he speaks ten thousand languages,” he answers.

Claire’s eyes widen and Castiel hurries to correct him. “Only six, fluently.”

“Oh, _only_ six,” Dean echoes. “That’s practically nothing.”

“What can you speak?” Claire asks, eyes still wide with fascination.

“Latin, Russian, French, Greek—Modern, that is, Spanish, and Italian. I’m still trying to teach myself Arabic, and Japanese is surprisingly difficult. My Biblical Hebrew is unfortunately a little rusty.”

“That’s okay, mine is too,” Dean quips sarcastically.

“I wasn’t aware you could speak Biblical Hebrew.” Castiel scrutinizes Dean with a suspicious look.

“I don’t. I was just—” He waves a dismissive hand and sticks the book back on the shelf. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dean proceeds to walk around the room, checking out the other bookshelves, occasionally squinting or making an impressed face at some of the titles. “Quite the collection, man,” he says once he’s made it back to Castiel. “You got books on quantum physics and advanced mathematics with the good, classic stuff like Orwell and Vonnegut, not to mention the freakin’ biology books and every other subject in the world. You actually read all of this stuff?”

Castiel crosses his arms and eyes Dean. “My specialization in college was in linguistics and astrophysics, but I enjoyed several other subjects as well. I also double minored in history and theology. It was difficult to choose one thing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of these guys that does math problems for fun.”

“I find it relaxing occasionally, yes.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly and he gives a short laugh before to turning to Claire. “You know your uncle is really freakin’ smart?”

Castiel just rolls his eyes and brushes past the two of them. “I believe we’re done in here.”

The three of them end up back where they started, in the entryway in front of the front door. Castiel looks expectantly at Dean. “Was there something else you wanted?”

Dean gives a half-shake of his head. “Well, you know, I was kind of hoping you’d let me take you and the kiddo out for some lunch or something. I like to get to know my clients, and I’m sure Claire would enjoy learning something more about her uncle.”

After their adventure at the church, Castiel doesn’t really want to go anywhere. Preferably for the rest of his life, but certainly not for at least twenty-four hours. Dean looks at him expectantly and he realizes that he’s just been standing there and still hasn’t provided the man with an answer. “I would rather not.” Castiel’s automatic impulse is to say no. He doesn’t even have to think about it. But then he glances at Claire, who’s looking up at him with unmistakably disappointed eyes. “Do you want to?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t mind.”

And he’s pretty sure that means yes, which makes him feel like a jerk. “If Claire wants to go, you may take her.” He’s hoping that will satisfy both of them, but unfortunately Dean keeps pressing.

“Come on, man.” For a second, it looks like he’s about to reach out and nudge Castiel again, but then he seems to remember what happened the last time, and his arm falls back to his side. “That kind of defeats the whole purpose of this. Besides, I’m paying. Who turns down free food?”

Castiel tenses and shifts slightly. Almost a physical representation of his desire to stand his ground in the argument. His mind works in overdrive to try and provide a suitable rebuff. And then Claire speaks for him.

“Oh,” her voice pipes up suddenly. She speaks in kind of a hushed tone, like she doesn’t want Castiel to hear. But the effect is lost, since he’s standing right next to her. “I think it’s because he doesn’t feel good. He threw up earlier. When we went to church.”

Both he and Dean turn their heads to look at her, Castiel with an annoyed frown and Dean with a look of mild surprise and concern.

“He’s not feeling well?” Now he turns to Castiel and the look of concern intensifies a bit. “You feelin’ sick? To your stomach?”

Castiel feels like he could punch a hole in the wall. Instead, he turns his gaze to one of the corners of the room, where the floor meets the wall, and stares at it like it’s the most fascinating thing ever. “I’m not…It’s not. …That,” he grits out stiffly. “It’s not that.” And he prays Dean won’t say anything else. He prays Claire won’t either.

“Then wh—?” Dean blinks a few times. “Oh.” He either gets what Castiel is saying, thinks he gets what Castiel is saying, or just gives up. Because he doesn’t say anything else.

 _“Oh_ ,” Castiel echoes. Logically, he knows he shouldn’t be upset, but he can’t keep the small sneer off his face. “If you don’t mind, I would like to try and get another hour of sleep today.” _Please leave. Please just leave._

“Well, in that case, there’s no better cure for that than some good old-fashioned greasy diner food. Come on, you probably won’t even have to cook dinner tonight.”

Damn it.

A small voice offers a meek “I am getting a little tired of pb&j.”

God-fucking-damn it. Everything’s just making him feel worse. He huffs out an angry breath.

“Just. Take Claire. Please.” In all fairness, he’s doing his best to stay civil. Who can blame him if a little of his anger leaks out?

Dean sighs. Still, it’s a sigh of resignation. Hopefully. It sounds like one. A small victory. “Have it your way, man. You up to go get some dinner, kid?”

Claire looks uncertainly between the two men, then finally nods. “Yes.”

Dean smiles, a small smile that makes his features soften considerably. It’s not the first time Dean’s smiled like that at Claire, so Castiel thinks it must be reserved for children.

Another problem hits Castiel as Dean prepares to leave with Claire. One that he’d totally forgotten about. He’d forgotten to change Claire’s bandages this morning, and she never said anything to him. It makes him feel like a huge jerk, because he’s been so wrapped up with his own issues that he everything else has sort of slipped his mind. Even the fact that his niece is living with him entirely because her parents were killed in a house fire. And that the same fire injured her as well.

“Claire,” he calls softly. She tilts her head up at him and he takes that as a cue to continue. “I’m sorry. I forgot to change your bandages this morning. Would you like them changed now?”

“Well,” she drawls the word out, speaking in a tone like she wasn’t going to bother to mention it. “They’re kind of itchy.”

Castiel turns to Dean. Before he can even open his mouth, Dean gives them a “go ahead” wave. “I’ll be here,” he says.

“It won’t take long,” Castiel promises.

Yet when they’re situated in the bathroom, Castiel finds it hard to move. Well, he does okay at first. Her injuries are healing very well. Some of them are already healed enough that they don’t require a bandage, and the rest of them will probably be at that point within a few days. But once he’s finished tending to the more minor burns and cuts on her arms and face, he finds that he’s stuck. Claire waits, surprisingly patiently, while he grips the back of her shirt and forces himself to pull it up slowly.

The wound on her back is by far her worst one, though even it looks much better than it did at first. Still, he instantly feels sick to his stomach when he looks at it, and he’s reminded just _why_ he doesn’t like doing this. He reaches for the old bandages and shakily undoes them, watching as they fall to the bathroom floor. The tube of ointment lies about a foot away, on the sink, and he grabs it.

That’s as far as he gets. As soon as he lays eyes on the burns on her back, his vision whites out and the _pain_ returns. A searing, painful heat cutting into his back. Something burning. The smell of burned flesh and fresh blood. He gags. There’s a loud crashing sound and he immediately flinches away from the noise. Something collides into him from behind. He tries to move away, but the thing grabs his shoulders and presses itself against his back and he lets out a rough gasp because he can’t even scream.

“Whoa! Whoa, Castiel, hey!” The pressure against his back vanishes but the grip on his shoulders remains.

Another gasp. Then he’s being lowered to the bathroom floor. And he’s falling. _Don’t let me fall!_ The presence behind him hauls him back up quick enough that it makes his head rush, so he must have said that aloud. He blinks, and his vision returns. Claire is hovering in front of him, which means Dean must be behind him. Sure enough, the man appears in his field of vision a few seconds later.

“You good?” Dean asks, holding his hands up slightly as if he were hesitant to actually let go of Castiel.

“Sorry,” Castiel chokes out instead of responding to the question. His voice is quiet and breathless and it sounds like he just ran a marathon. “I’m sorry,” he tries again. “I’m fine. Claire, do you mind if Dean finishes this?”

She thinks for a minute. “I don’t mind.”

Castiel visibly relaxes, though he has to fight the urge to just flee the room right then and there. “Dean, do you…?” His voice cuts out, so he gestures to the bandages laying on the sink counter.

Dean gives him a funny look and Castiel feels kind of like he’s being analyzed. But it doesn’t matter because Dean nods in agreement. “Yeah. Sure. No problem, I got it.”

“Thank you,” he manages to say before he gives into his desire to flee the room.


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m telling you, man, the guy is a goddamn genius.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like Mensa-level genius, I’m pretty sure. Dude probably pieced together friggin’ molecules as a toddler instead of stacking building blocks. Not to mention he speaks like a damn Vulcan.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean, the guy went to Princeton and he’s like ‘oh I double-majored in linguistics and astrophysics but that wasn’t enough so I went and double-minored in history and theology too! But I also know just about everything about every other fucking subject too! No, but I’m not smart because I _only_ speak six languages, no big deal.’”

“Yeah.”

Dean frowns and cranes his neck to glance at his brother, sitting in the desk behind the couch. He sits up and stares at his brother’s back.

“Are you even listening?”

Sam sighs, carefully shuts his laptop screen, and turns around to face Dean. “Yes, Dean, I’m listening. For the fiftieth time.”

Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What do you mean by that?”

“This Castiel guy is all you’ve been talking about since you got assigned to his case. Even more so since you actually met the guy.”

“I have not!”

Sam continues. “I thought you didn’t even like him.”

“He is a pretty massive dick.” Dean nods his head in agreement.

Sam makes a “carry on” gesture. “So I don’t get it. What’s the obsession with him? You’ve met him twice. You haven’t even had your first official appointment with him yet. Also, may I add, you’ve already taken his niece out to dinner. What gives?”

Dean doesn’t like the way that sounds, and he huffs unhappily. “It’s completely professional,” he defends. “I do that for all my clients. It’s my job to get to know them.”

“You so do not.”

“Most of them, then.”

“Only the ones that interest you, Dean,” Sam counters. And Dean knows that’s true, so he doesn’t bother denying it. “That’s what I want to know. What’s so fascinating about Dmitri Novak? A guy who, in your own words, you can hardly stand.”

“He prefers Castiel,” Dean says cheerfully.

Sam throws up his hands. Dean smirks slightly. The two of them may be “professionals” now, but he’ll always take some measure of joy in being able to annoy his little brother. He moves so he’s kneeling backwards on the couch, with his arms draped over the back, staring at Sam.

“Claire—that’s his niece—is a good kid,” he adds seriously. “A really good kid. And I think he genuinely cares about her. I think he wants to do right by her. I talked to his lady friend once. She said he’d do anything for Claire, even if it kills him. And I think that’s exactly what he’s doing. I mean, you should have seen the way he freaked out when he was trying to bandage up a burn wound on the kid’s back. You’d think someone was attacking him.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know what’s going on in that guy’s head. But he’s messed up.”

The younger brother gives Dean a long-suffering look. “He’s got PTSD, Dean. Right? What do you expect? Who knows what he’s been through?”

“I don’t know.” Dean frowns and stretches around until he can reach the beer bottle located on the conveniently close coffee table. The bottle is still cold and he takes a long drink from it. “This whole case...” He trails off and his face takes on an unusually somber look that’s also reflected in his voice. “There’s just something about it. Like I can’t just leave it alone.”

“You don’t trust Castiel? You regretting not slamming him on your report?”

“It’s not that.” Dean shakes his head and corrects himself. The beer bottle in his hand becomes an interesting distraction, and he shakes the bottle lightly, just barely able to make out the contents swishing around inside. “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know. For some reason, I just feel like it’s my job to help him and Claire.”

“It _is_ your job, Dean.” Yep, that’s definitely Sam’s _Dean, you’re a complete idiot_ tone of voice, and he doesn’t even have to look at Sam to know he’s giving a matching _you’re an idiot_ expression.

“That’s not what I mean. It’s like I gotta go above and beyond. Go the extra mile, you know? I can’t explain it. I just feel like it’s personal, somehow. It’s different. Like really important kind of different. That’s it.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Dean doesn’t miss the skeptical look his brother is shooting him. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Dad and the way we were raised, would it?”

Dean freezes. When he looks up from his beer bottle, he’s giving Sam such a cold glare that the younger brother flinches back a bit. “No. Got nothing to do with it.” He brings the bottle to his lips and downs all that’s left.

“You sure?” Sam ventures, a little hesitantly.

“Yes, I’m sure, okay? It’s nothing like that. So drop it.”

“Alright, fine.”

After several moments, Dean says nothing else, and so Sam turns back to continue his work.

\--

There’s a dog on the front porch.

He ignores it while he smokes his first cigarette. Now, as he’s starting his second, it’s still sitting there, staring up at him expectantly. Castiel takes the cigarette out of his mouth and stares back at it.

“I have nothing for you,” he tells it solemnly, as if he expects it to understand him.

The dog wags its tail and keeps on staring.

Castiel sighs and takes another puff from the cigarette. It’s a pretty dog. Mid-sized, with long, black, white, brown and grey fur, and striking blue eyes. He’s no expert on dogs, but he’s pretty sure it’s at least part Australian Shepherd.

“I don’t know what you want,” he says when it whines and begs at him. Why the animal chose to sit on his doorstep, he has no idea. But he’s been standing out here for close to ten minutes and it’s been here with him the entire time.

After he finishes his second cigarette, he turns to face the dog. It cocks its head at him. He stares at it for another few seconds before giving it an awkward wave and heading back inside.

\--

He’s sitting in the library trying to distract himself with a book he picked randomly off a shelf when the door opens suddenly and he almost knocks the book onto the floor.

Claire steps in and he relaxes minutely. “Do you need something?” he asks her.

“There’s a dog on the front porch.”

He raises an eyebrow. So it’s still out there, three hours later. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“It’s pawing at the door. I think it wants in.”

“Again, what would you like me to do about it?” His tone sounds more impatient than he intended, but he doesn’t bother to try and correct it.

“I don’t know…”

She’s dancing around the subject, but he’s fairly sure he’s figured out what she wants now. With a sigh, he gets up and makes his way downstairs.

Sure enough, when he peeks out of the front window, that same dog is still sitting there, right in front of the door as if it belongs there and is simply waiting to be let in.

Claire offers, “I think it’s hungry.”

He takes another look out the window. When he first noticed the animal, he didn’t pay a lot of attention to it. From what he remembers, and from what he can see, it does look a little thin. Its fur is also dirty and a little matted, like it’s been living on the streets for a while.

“I have nothing for it,” he says, and pulls the curtain closed.

“You can’t just leave it out there,” she insists.

“It will go away eventually.”

“What if it doesn’t?” she counters.

“It will.”

She doesn’t give up. “What if something happens to it?”

“That’s the way the world works,” he says wearily. “There are thousands of stray dogs on the street, in this area alone.”

Claire frowns, like she’s considering something, and then pulls the curtain back slightly to look out at the dog. “What if we kept it?” She speaks like she’s trying to make a business proposal that she knows won’t go over very well.

And that’s exactly what he was afraid of. “Taking this dog in would do nothing for all the other animals on the street. I can’t take them all in.”

“It would be one less, at least. It’d make a difference to that one.”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off yet another impending headache. “I cannot afford to take care of you and a dog, Claire. I barely get by as it is.” He really doesn’t want to have this argument. Plus, there are so many other reasons why a dog wouldn’t be a good idea for him. They’re loud, and he doesn’t do well with loud noises. And there’s very little space in the house for a dog. He would have to take it out on regular walks—something else he can’t see himself enjoying. And that wouldn’t be fair to the animal.

Her entire posture deflates, and a pout forms on her face. “Sorry to be such a burden to you. Maybe you should just throw me out on the street too. Then you can just go back to doing whatever weird stuff you do and not have me to make things difficult for you. ”

“You’re being unreasonable. That isn’t—”

She sulks off before he can get anything else out. Less than half a minute later he hears a door slam closed, and he flinches. He really does need to talk to her about loud noises like that.

He sighs heavily and rubs a hand over his face. This isn’t at all what he wanted. But since he can’t do anything about it, he gives up and retreats back to the library.

Several hours pass before he finally puts the book down and looks up at the clock. Normally, Claire would have already came and bugged him about food by now (honestly, he would probably would just forget to eat most days if no one said anything) but she’s been quiet. He supposes he should go check on her and apologize for hurting her feelings. But when he actually gets downstairs and knocks on her door, no one answers and he finds the room is empty. The bathroom, as it turns out, is empty too

Fighting down a growing sense of panic, he heads back to check the kitchen and living room and any other place he could have missed. It’s only after he’s gone through the whole house twice that he realizes the front door is slightly open and the porch light is on. And then he thinks he knows where Claire went.

His theory is confirmed upon opening the door. Really, he guesses he should have figured. There’s Claire, sitting in the lone chair, and feeding what appears to be pieces of lunchmeat to the dog, who is sitting patiently at her feet and staring intently up at her, waiting for the next piece.

“It’s okay,” she tells the dog in a soft voice. A pat on the head follows her words. “You don’t have a home or a family. I don’t either. Well, I kind of do, but not really. Not entirely.”

He was preparing himself to be angry, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to be mad. Hearing her words drains him, and now he’s just sad. Sad and tired and guilty.

“Claire.” When he speaks he tries to keep some firmness in his voice. To at least attempt to keep up the image that he’s angry with her.

She jumps and turns in her seat to face him. But she doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with that deer-in-the-headlights look.

“What are you doing?” he asks, even though the answer is obvious.

“I was just...” She looks down and then holds up the half-piece of turkey in her hand, like that explains everything. “He was hungry, and waiting for someone to feed him.”

Castiel withholds a sigh and crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Don’t go outside without asking me first, and especially not at night.” He should reprimand her on wasting food on a homeless dog, but that’s all he says instead.

“He’s a really good boy,” Claire offers. “At least, I think he’s a boy.”

One quick check confirms that. “Yes, Claire, he’s male.”

“What should we name him?” Claire asks innocently, apparently ignoring the fact that Castiel told her she couldn’t keep him.

“I don’t know, Claire.” Really, it’s way too late to have that argument anyway, and he just can’t make himself care anymore.

She looks up at him guiltily. “I know you told me we couldn’t keep him. But I couldn’t just _leave_ him. He needs someone. He has no one. Besides, he really likes it here.”

He exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Claire feeds the dog the rest of the lunchmeat—he takes it very gently, Castiel notes—and gives him another pat on the head. The dog wags his tail in response and presses his head against her hand.

 _A dog would be good for her_ , his mind supplies. _She needs all the friends she can get._

His silence must make Claire think he needs more encouragement. “I can skip some meals so that we can afford to get food for him,” she offers helpfully.

“ _No_ ,” Castiel says immediately, shaking his head. “No. That won’t be necessary. Your father would have my head if I let you do that. We’ll…I’ll manage.” In any case, he eats little enough that he doubts he’ll miss it if he skips a few more meals every now and again.

Claire gives him a hopeful look, and Castiel realizes she’s waiting for him to tell her if she can keep the dog or not. Even the dog seems to be giving him the same look. He frowns. “Come inside, Claire,” he says finally. Her face falls and he hurries to continue. “Leave a towel out for him to lie on. If he’s still here in the morning, then he can stay.”

She smiles a small smile. It looks like she’s trying not to grin. The sight makes a smile tug at the corners of his lips, but he forces a straight face.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

The dog is still there when Castiel steps outside at five in the morning to smoke a cigarette. Castiel stares at it, and it stares back with an expectant look. So he gives in, keeps his promise, and opens the door to allow the animal inside. The dog wastes no time darting inside and Castiel figures he’ll have to go out and get some things for it. A bag of food, at the very least.

The dog makes itself right at home, jumping up and settling down on the couch. Castiel goes to fix another cup of coffee and reluctantly sits down in the chair across from the couch and resigns himself to staring at the animal until Claire wakes up.

The squeal Claire makes when she comes into the living room and sees the animal stretched out on the couch like it owns the place is enough to shake Castiel out of his coffee-induced daze and he nearly drops the cup in his efforts to locate the sudden loud noise. The dog instantly jumps up and trots over to her, almost as if it’s been doing that every day.

She then surprises him by coming over and wrapping her arms around his waist and whispering “thank you.” He stiffens at the first contact, then slowly relaxes and awkwardly pats her on the head.

“What should we name him?” she asks again after she releases him.

“I don’t particularly care,” he says.

Claire frowns and taps her chin like she’s deep in thought. “I’m not good at boy names,” she confesses finally. “You pick something, Uncle.”

And Castiel has to try hard to reign in his frustration and not let it show. But he really doesn’t care. When he looks at Claire to say something, he finds her giving him that pleading look again, and then he can’t just say no. So he swallows his frustrated growl and tries to think.

A name comes to his mind and so he goes with the first thing he thinks of. “Misha.” He’s not one hundred percent sure where the name came from. Maybe he heard it a long time ago, or he could have just as easily read it in a book or simply heard it in passing. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes.

“Misha?” Claire echoes. “Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“No.”

She nods, and turns to look at the dog. “Do you like that? Misha?” The dog tilts its head and wags its tail once. Apparently that’s good enough for her. “Okay! Come on Misha, I’ll show you my room.”

As Claire runs off, with Misha following obediently behind her, Castiel wonders what he’s gotten himself into. Still, it’s hard to begrudge Claire this tiny bit of happiness.

\--

Misha is a well-behaved dog. For the most part, at least. He’s housebroken, anyway. Which is a big plus. He also seems very intelligent. He must have belonged to someone before, because—as Claire gleefully discovered—he already knows some simple commands. (She thinks that she’s just a very good teacher and Misha is a fast learner, and Castiel decides not to spoil her fun.)

But he’s very excitable and happy. And very loud. To be fair, he’s not loud all the time. But when he barks, it’s sudden and high-pitched and it wracks heavily on his frayed nerves. Claire loves how energetic he is. She’ll chase him around until he curls up somewhere for a nap. And he’s always happy to see her. Which is good, in some ways, because it keeps her busy and entertained and he doesn’t feel quite as much like a total piece of shit. But in Castiel’s case, seeing a fifty pound grey blur barreling towards him incites a different reaction. A much less pleasurable one. And it’s only a matter of time before he fails to keep himself from reacting.

“You look tired,” Hannah tells him one evening as he stands on a street corner, waiting for Misha to finish sniffing a particularly fascinating pole. The dog had been far too energetic for his liking, despite Claire’s attempts to tire him out. And since he wasn’t going to let Claire take him out by herself after dark, he reluctantly picked up the leash and took it upon himself to tire the animal out.

Castiel jumps when he hears her voice behind him. “Hannah. Don’t do that.”

“My apologies.” Hannah watches as he tugs at the dog’s leash, trying to encourage the animal to move, but to no avail. He sighs. She frowns. “Did you take up dog-walking for extra money?”

“No, he’s…” Castiel gestures at the dog until he can come up with the right word. “He’s mine. Claire’s. He’s Claire’s. She insisted on keeping him.”

An amused smile flits across Hannah’s face. “What’s his name?”

“Misha.”

She looks down at the dog—who has started sniffing around at Hannah’s feet—and nods. “He looks like a Misha.”

“He’s a menace.”

Hannah bends down to scratch Misha behind his ears, much to his delight. “You know,” she says as casually as she can. “I’ve heard that dogs make good companions for veterans.”

“ _He’s a menace_ ,” Castiel repeats. The dog finally tugs forward and Hannah follows along beside Castiel. “He’s loud. Very loud. And he has too much energy.”

“He looks to be young. He just needs someone to discipline him properly.”

“I don’t know that I want to be the one to do that,” he grumbles. “If not for Claire, I wouldn’t keep him. I’m not prepared to deal with animals.”

Hannah pats him on the shoulder, only slightly awkwardly. But neither of them is all that good with social skills, so he doesn’t mind. “Give him a chance, Castiel. You may find that you come to enjoy his company.”

Castiel almost laughs. Almost.


	6. Chapter 6

“So how are things going with Claire?”

Castiel resists the urge to sigh and instead shifts in the leather seat. Being asked this same question is quickly becoming very tiring. Not to mention that Castiel has the sneaking suspicion that Dean already knows. “It’s been a week. I don’t know. How are they supposed to be ‘going?’”

Dean leans back in his chair and stares at Castiel from across the desk. “Come on, Cas, there’s got to be some progress, good or bad.”

This time Castiel does give an irritable sigh. “Sometimes things are fine, sometimes they’re not.”

“Care to elaborate?”

He glares at the social worker and crosses his arms. “We haven’t ‘talked it out’ or anything, if that’s what you’re wondering. She won’t talk about that kind of thing with me.”

Dean nods. “That’s a normal grieving process for a kid. Try and bottle it all up and stuff. Not good, though.”

“Then what would you suggest? I’m sure you’d love to tell me how I’m doing it all wrong.”

The social worker holds up a placating hand. “Whoa, dude, calm down. I’m no expert at this either. My brother’s the ‘talk-it-out-touchy-feely’ guy, not me. That’s not my style.”

“You’re a social worker.”

“Not quite the same thing as a psychiatrist,” Dean laughs. “Besides, I’m not clinical. My focus is on family matters. Divorces, custody battles, stuff like that. Not mental health.”

Castiel’s response comes out frenzied and almost desperate-sounding. “Then what good is it for you to sit here and lecture me like one?”

To his surprise, Dean doesn’t answer that. Instead, he runs a hand over his face and then clasps them both together in front of him, giving his best professional pose. “Okay. Let’s change tactics. _You_ have to talk to _her._ ”

He gives Dean an unimpressed squint. “Big words coming from someone that just told me that they themselves aren’t good with words.”

The grin he gets in return is infuriating. “That’s why I’m sitting on this side of the desk, Cas,” Dean chimes. “I get to tell people to go have an emotional talk. I don’t have to do it myself.”

Cas. There’s that name again. “You keep calling me Cas.” It’s not a bad accusation, just a statement of fact.

Dean shrugs. “Well, you don’t want me calling you Mr. Novak, you won’t let me call you Dmitri, and Cas is just easier than the full thing. I’ll stop if you hate it that much.”

“I don’t care.”

“Unless you want me to drop the mister and just call you Novak. That what all your war buddies call you?” Dean says and his tone sounds so light-hearted and airy that Castiel can’t tell if Dean is joking or not.

Either way, he really wants to slam Dean into a wall for that comment. A cold sweat is already breaking out on his face and the back of his neck, and he’s willing to bet his face is at least three shades paler now, too. “No. Cas is fine,” he says quickly. His heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest, and the headache that’s been building ever since he stepped into Dean Winchester’s office begins throbbing in rhythm with his heart. He rests his elbows on the table and slumps over just enough to cradle his forehead in his hands, feeling increasingly drained by the conversation. His eyes shut tightly.

“You okay?” a voice asks.

“Headache. Yes,” he answers almost robotically.

“Want some Advil or something?” The sound of a drawer opening comes out of nowhere and he hears what sounds like a pill bottle being shaken.

“No. Thank you. It will fade.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, and he can’t see whether the other man reacts any other way, but after a moment he hears the drawer shut so he assumes Dean has given up.

It’s blissfully silent for a few moments, except for the sound of shuffling papers and the quiet _scritch_ of a pen on said paper. The sound is strangely relaxing. And then Dean speaks and breaks the moment.

“Right. Anyway. What I mean is, you’ve got to tell her _something_. You can’t leave her in the dark. That’s not good. She’s not going to fully trust you like that.”

Dean’s words are too vague. It’s frustrating, and he wants to scream. “What do you mean by that?” He says instead, trying his best to stay calm.

Castiel’s lack of understanding seems to frustrate Dean, in turn. “Come on, Cas. I’ve only seen you interact with her once, but you can clearly see how curious the girl is. Worried, too. Did you pay any attention to her after you zoned out the other day? She was practically frozen in spot. Every time I’ve talked to her alone, she asks me what’s wrong with you.”

“She needs to worry about herself,” Castiel mumbles, refusing to remove his hand from his hands. “In any case, what would I tell her?”

“Jeez, I don’t know. You know what’s up with you better than anyone else.” Castiel says nothing, hoping his silence will prompt Dean to give him something he can work with. Sure enough, Dean starts fumbling for something else. When he speaks, he pitches his voice down lower like he’s trying to imitate Castiel’s voice. Castiel doesn’t know whether to be amused or not. “I don’t know… Something like ‘hey, so I know you’ve been wondering what I did for a living and stuff, so I was actually in the air force and I fought in a war. Thing is, it was really rough over there so I’m kind of messed up and I get a little nervous sometimes. Sorry if I ever act weird, but I promise I’m not going to go postal on you or anything.”

A bird squawks as it flies by Dean’s office window. Castiel lifts his head slightly to try and get a glimpse of it. Wearily, he looks at Dean and uses his hands to prop his head up. “You really do suck at wording.”

“Hey!” The other man actually seems offended. “At least I’m trying, and I’m not the one sitting here all ‘woe is me’ and crap.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says with a sigh.

“Then make it simple. She’s a kid, Cas. She’s not going to understand it any other way.”

He shakes his head vehemently. The motion makes his head throb, making him instantly regret it. “That’s not...” Another sigh. “Claire is a very bright child. I just…can’t…” That sentence dies in his throat and he abandons it to start a new one. “I don’t want her to end up like me. I don’t. But I can’t…”

Dean clears his throat and shifts around in his own seat. He postures himself up, like he’s preparing himself for something. “Okay, how about this. I don’t know if there’s something you don’t want her to know, or if there’s something _you_ don’t want to know, or what. But I can tell you this now. You keep going on like you’re doing, and she’ll come to resent it. Or she’ll spend all her time worrying and wondering if your behavior is somehow her fault. And man, you don’t want that.”

The fact that Dean sounds like he’s speaking from experience doesn’t escape Castiel, but for the moment he can only focus on one thing. “I don’t know what else to do,” he snaps.

Dean coughs quickly, to brush off the serious tone from his last statement. “Lucky you have me, then. Let’s try this. Baby steps. Tell her you’re a little sick and it makes you act strange sometimes, but it’s not bad. If she asks questions, tell her what you’re comfortable with.”

 _I’m not comfortable with anything_ , he thinks. “Fine.”

“Alright, next. We’re gonna cover all the bases, here. Make sure we’ve got everything good, alright? What kind of home life is she used to?”

Castiel stares blankly at Dean, which must make the social worker think he doesn’t understand the question, because he hurries to elaborate.

“I mean, like what kind of routine did she have? Chores? Curfew? Anything that might make it seem a little less different? What’s she used to?”

Before Dean can say anything, Castiel cuts him off. “I understood your question. I just…am uncertain. I did not speak much to my brother in recent years, and I never questioned his child-rearing habits. I had no use for that knowledge, and I assumed I could offer little advice.”

Dean leans forward and offers a curious look while absentmindedly twirling the pen on his desk. “Never wanted a family of your own?”

Castiel considers his response. “The…meet a woman, fall in love, and have a child… That’s not really my…thing,” he says at last, pronouncing the last word as if he’s never used it in that context before.

“Right,” Dean says.

“In any case,” Castiel continues, “I assume my brother would have held a stricter household. That’s more his style, I believe. Amelia, as well. And Claire is very well-behaved.”

“And I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you’re just letting her run around like a little hellion?”

“She’s not a _hellion_ ,” Castiel defends.

“Okay, but you haven’t exactly set any rules for her, have you?”

He looks down at the desk, mindlessly tracing the patterns of the wood. The finish gives the whole thing a glossy, dark color. It’s a nice desk. Dean clears his throat, and Castiel snaps to attention, realizing that he’s once again forgotten to answer. “I’ve told her that she is welcome to entertain herself in any way she sees fit, so long as she refrains from loud noises and doesn’t bother anything in certain places. As I said, she’s a very good child. She goes to bed on her own, and always asks before she touches anything that isn’t hers.”

When Castiel looks up, he notes that Dean is frowning slightly. It concerns him. “Is that wrong?”

Dean takes a long moment to answer. “Well, not exactly. I mean, it’s good that she’s a good kid and all.”

“But?”

“Look, I don’t particularly have a problem with it. My little brother, Sam. He was like that too. You never had to tell him what to do. Good kid. Hell, he always offered to do chores! Crazy, right?” Dean smiles fondly as he talks. “But anyway.” The smile disappears and his expression becomes more neutral again. “It ain’t gonna fly with my bosses.”

Castiel tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“They like to see order,” Dean explains. “They want to see that you can set rules and discipline her properly and stuff like that. Even if she’s a good kid, they’re gonna think you’re letting her run wild. It looks like you’re just housing a guest rather than being her guardian.”

“I was hesitant to assign her any chores. I didn’t want to make her feel like a slave. Also, it seems wrong to make her work when she’s only just lost her family. And I’m not…comfortable giving orders.”

“Trust me, it’ll keep her mind off it. Better than sitting around all day. She doesn’t need to be left to her own devices. You know the kind of crap your mind can come up with when you don’t have anything to distract yourself from your thoughts. Not good for a kid to sit there and marinate like that.” He leans closer. “And I’m going to let you in on a secret. It’s all about looking presentable. Picture-perfect ideal of a family. Makes us look good.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re different, and that you actually care.”

Dean shrugs. “Would you believe what I said? You should probably decide for yourself. As for Claire, just…take some initiative. Talk to her.”

Castiel knows. He knows very well. But he chooses not to say anything about it. “If you insist.” Honestly, it’s much easier to just go along with what Dean says than to try and fail to explain why _he just can’t_. He goes back to tracing the wood with one hand while continuing to rest his head in his other.

“Okay, so that’s that covered.” A squeaking noise makes Castiel look up slightly, only to discover that Dean has spun around in his chair and is typing something into the computer at his side. But he can’t see the screen, so he doesn’t pay Dean any mind.

Dean speaks again. “Next, employment.”

Castiel’s heart sinks. “It hasn’t even been a month,” he protests. “That’s hardly enough time.”

“I know.” Dean waves his hand to keep Castiel quiet. “But you’re living off two disability checks a month. I know it sucks, but everything here boils down to what the higher-ups think.”

“They don’t know me.”

Dean shrugs. “Like I said, it sucks. But that’s the way it is. According to your records, they think you’re capable of at least some work. If you’re not at least trying to get a job, that’s gonna raise up a red flag to the state. They’ll think you’re not capable.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for.” Dean turns to his computer screen for a few moments and Castiel busies himself with listening to the soft clicking sound the keyboard makes as Dean types on it. “You haven’t held down a job—not for very long, at least—since you were discharged from the air force. Before that, you did construction work. Right?” He glances up at Castiel for confirmation.

“Yes,” he answers. “I did it part-time in college to earn extra money, and a little bit after I graduated. The house I own now, I bought it very cheap and renovated it myself.”

“What about that, then? There’s always plenty of building projects going on around here. If you were good at it, why not try that?”

Castiel hesitates. “I can’t. Not anymore, at least.”

“Why not?”

The social worker’s apparent obliviousness is extremely frustrating to Castiel. _Why can’t he just GET it?_ He sits up straight and clenches his hands into fists, which he holds tightly in his lap. “Construction sites are very _loud. Fast-paced. Stressful._ ” Each word is pronounced slowly and extra emphasis in the hopes that it will somehow sink in without him having to spell it out.

“Oh, right.” Dean looks down and fiddles with his desk drawers, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I guess that doesn’t sit well with the whole ‘traumatized soldier’ thing you got going on there. You probably had enough of that.”

The way Dean says it causes Castiel to send him a sharp glare. He’s never liked people talking about him like that. No matter how true it may be. At times like these Castiel thinks Dean seems to be a very poor social worker. Mostly because _he doesn’t understand_.

Dean must sense Castiel’s upset, because he takes a deep breath and tries to speak in a softer tone. “Sorry, man. I don’t usually handle cases like this, where mental illness is such a huge factor. Like I told you. Mostly I’m just the ‘Mom and Dad are fighting over Junior’ type of worker. Also the ‘Mom and Dad are dead and relatives are fighting over Junior.’ You know, just. Without the ‘the only relative left is kind of messed up’ add-on.” He amends, “Well, not your kind of messed-up, anyway.”

Castiel sighs. “It’s not just…that. Anything requiring heavy manual labor would be difficult for me, regardless of how noisy the environment was.”

That gets an eyebrow-raise out of Dean. “You got a physical disability? You don’t walk with a limp or anything. I haven’t noticed.”

“It’s not bad,” Castiel says quickly, eager to shift the subject to something else. “The injury has long-since healed, for the most part. It’s only mild discomfort on occasion. But it’s a deterrent, nonetheless.”

“Alright, hang on a sec.” Dean returns to his computer, and then a few minutes later a mechanical-sounding noise starts up behind Castiel.

Castiel flinches and spins around to find the source of the noise. It’s a printer.

“Sorry, didn’t know that was going to startle you,” Dean says and he gets up and goes to retrieve the sheet of paper from the machine. “You’re about the jumpiest guy I’ve ever met.”

A sheet of paper is thrust in front of his field of vision, and Castiel looks up to see Dean holding the paper out to him. Gingerly, he reaches out to take it and then gives Dean a questioning look.

“That’s a list of all the nearby organizations for veterans. You may already know some of them. Plus, some employment offices and such. They’re good places to start.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Castiel says flatly, though his voice sounds anything but grateful. He folds the paper up and shoves it into a pocket of his trenchcoat. The motion attracts Dean’s attention.

“Isn’t the trenchcoat on top of the suit and tie a little formal for everyday wear?”

Castiel shrugs. “I like this coat.”

“I noticed.”

The conversation lulls into silence after that, until Dean sighs a sigh that Castiel is beginning to recognize as a bad sign. Sure enough, what Dean has to say next confirms it.

“Alright, you’re not going to like this very much, but I have to ask. How are _you_ doing? What about your meds?”

The pulsing ache in his head returns with a vengeance. “What about them?” he nearly growls.

Dean seems unaffected by the bite in his tone. “You takin’ ‘em regularly?”

Castiel tugs at his blue tie.

“So that’s a no if I ever saw one.” There’s that scribbling sound that indicates Dean is writing something down. “Why not?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “They don’t work,” he says bluntly.

“What are you taking?”

And then that familiar feeling returns. That feeling that makes his throat close up and makes speaking very difficult. “Mood-stabilizers. Anti-depressants. Anxiety medication,” he grits out after much effort. “I don’t remember their specific names.”

Dean makes a humming noise. “And your doctor?”

“Is inefficient,” Castiel finishes. “She believes her methods are effective. But she is who was recommended to me, and I know of no one else. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“I can rec you someone else,” Dean says. “I know some people who might be able to help. I’ll get back to you with some numbers.”

“I doubt it will do much good.”

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” he deadpans.

That doesn’t even warrant a response.

“Tell you what.” Dean pauses until Castiel meets his gaze. Until he at least looks like he’s ready to hear Dean’s proposal. “You don’t want to talk about that? Fine. I’m not going to make you unload your baggage if you wanna keep it packed up. _But._ ”

But. There’s always a “but.” Castiel waits to hear it. A feeling of dread starts to set it. He waits to hear the inevitable “but you might as well give up Claire now.” Or the “find a new social worker.” Something equally bad.

“What are you here for?”

Castiel squints in confusion. That’s not at all what he’d been expecting to hear. “Huh?” is his unintelligent response.

Dean elaborates. “You are planning on filing for permanent guardianship, right? You’ve got like, what? Sixty days to file? Sixty days from the start, so less than that now, I guess.”

Castiel nods.

“Then why are you here?” Dean repeats. “I won’t question your commitment or how you feel about that girl. It’s not my place. But, what do you intend to do? Do you have any kind of plan? What do you really want?”

Each question hits Castiel like someone is throwing lead blocks at his chest, and he struggles to remain impassive. His mind goes into overdrive, trying to figure out how to answer.

“I don’t need this,” he says, speaking in a slow and quiet voice. “I don’t need you to sit here and question me like that. If you’re not going to help me, then just tell me I’m not worth your time and be done with it. I won’t have you talk down to me like I’m some idiot. Show me that much respect, at least.”

“Chill, Cas. I told you, I’m not interested in doing that,” Dean promises. “Claire’s a good kid. I like her. I see why you’re so desperate to do right by her. I want to help you. But that doesn’t mean anything.” He pauses. “Look. You should really talk to my brother.”

The change in subject confuses Castiel, and he guesses Dean can tell.

“My brother—Sam—he knows a lot about that,” he goes on to explain. “I told you he’s an attorney, right? He works with Circuit Court. He specializes in custody battles and stuff like that. Kind of like me, except he knows a lot more. And he’s really good at it. Really, _really_ good at it.”

In between Dean’s professional, advisory tone, Castiel detects that same hint of fondness and pride that he hears whenever Dean mentions his brother. It’s kind of nice, really. Dean must be a good brother. But it always brings up an unreasonable feeling of bitterness. Because Jimmy must have never spoke of him in the same way Dean speaks of his own brother. Why would he have had any reason? But it must be nice, to have someone speak of you like that.

“So…”

Castiel snaps back to reality at the sound of Dean’s voice.

“I’m serious, Cas. What do you want to do?”

He frowns. “What kind of question is that? I want what’s best for Claire.”

Dean nods, and his brow scrunches in a slight frown. But he doesn’t say anything yet, and Castiel stares at him, searching his face for any kind of answers.

“I know that,” he says at last. “But I mean…what do _you_ want?”

Castiel opens his mouth to repeat his previous answer, becoming increasingly frustrated. Because _he doesn’t know what Dean wants_.

Before he can even get one syllable out, he’s cut off. “You don’t have to answer that now. But just…think about it, alright? I’m not giving up or telling you to call it quits, but you need to figure some stuff out on your own. I’ll continue to visit with Claire weekly, but once you have some kind of answer, come see me again. Then we’ll figure out how to proceed from there. Sound good?”

It sounds far from it, but Castiel can only nod while that familiar feeling of dread sets in his stomach.

\--

Among the many things Castiel doesn’t like, grade schools are one of them. It’s been close to a decade and a half since he’s set foot in a public school, and he would rather keep it that way. Unfortunately, he has little choice in the matter, so here he is, standing outside the door of the principal’s office of Claire’s elementary school.

The situation would be awkward enough if it were simply a public school. But Jimmy and Amelia Novak were well-off, far more so than Castiel, and they made sure Claire was receiving a good education at a private school. A religious private school, at that. Quite expensive and selective too, if the fancy building is any indication. Having never attended a private school, Castiel naturally feels very much out of his element. Everyone that passes by stares him down, like they’re judging him, or like he doesn’t belong (and honestly, he doesn’t), and he tries hard not to fidget under their stares.

The school itself is more of a nuisance than anything. There are no buses with a route close enough, which means he has to get up and drive her every morning, and then drive back to pick her up. The school was fairly close to Claire’s old house, but it’s a half-hour away from Castiel’s neighborhood. And driving through the early morning and after-school traffic has proved to be very nerve-wracking. Tuition alone is more than both of his disability checks combined, and he has no idea what he’ll do when it comes time to pay next year’s bill. But Jimmy had already paid this year off, and Castiel wants to keep Claire in the school she’s used to. So he supposes he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

As he stands there, waiting, he remembers how he came to be in this situation in the first place.

It’s been almost a week since Claire had started going to school again. Going through the process had been something Castiel dreaded. However, it was necessary, and the last thing he wanted was for Claire to fall too far behind. So Castiel had filled out the necessary paperwork, sucked it up, and got up to take her to school the day after the paperwork cleared. Except a couple of days ago, he’d been waiting to pick her up after school, like he had been doing. And she was late. Not late enough for him to start worrying, but noticeably late. When she’d finally shown up, she silently produced an official looking letter out of her backpack, addressed “to the current guardian of Claire Novak,” and handed it over.

 _Mr. Dmitri Novak_ , the letter started, and instantly Castiel felt a sour feeling in his gut.

 _On behalf of recent, unfortunate events, and in the interest of Claire’s well-being_ , _we are choosing to contact you. Claire is one of our best and brightest students, and her recent behavior and performance is troubling. In order to discuss the best options, we would like to meet with you directly. Claire’s continued educational success is very important to us, as is making sure she is receiving the best care and guidance possible. Please contact us at your earliest convenience to set up an appointment._

That car ride home had been particularly awkward and unpleasant. Castiel hadn’t known what to say, and Claire either didn’t know either, or just didn’t care to say anything. But as much as Castiel dreaded it, he’d made the damn appointment. Because what choice did he have?

And so here he is.

“Mr. Novak?”

The voice sounds impatient and irritated, like the owner has been calling him for a while.

“Yes?” he responds automatically. “Yes, I…yes?” That ominous door is open now, but still couldn’t be more uninviting. Castiel takes a deep breath and resigns himself to stepping into the office.

It feels like everything goes quiet the moment he steps inside.

“Good Lord,” says that same voice that beckoned him in.

Castiel looks up to see a woman, probably in her thirties, sitting behind the desk. Presumably, the principal of the school. Her hair is dyed blonde and shoulder length, perfectly styled, and she’s wearing a gray suit. Her expression is almost one of shock, but still somehow retains a hard edge to it. She seems like the typical stern headmaster type.

But the staring is making him distinctly uncomfortable, making his skin crawl, and he resolves to put a stop to it before he starts squirming. He makes sure his protective mask is firmly in place, straightens his shoulders, and takes another step into the room. “Is there a problem?”

The woman snaps her jaw closed—only now seeming to realize she’d been gaping—and shakes her head. “No, no.” She busies herself by flipping through a few papers on her desk, then looks back up at him. “You’re Dmitri Novak?”

“Yes.”

She gestures to the seat in front of the desk, and he reluctantly takes that as his cue to sit down. The hard, metal and plastic chair presses uncomfortably against his back. Hopefully this won’t take too long.

“Forgive me. I knew that you were Jimmy’s brother, God rest his soul, but I didn’t know you were his identical twin. Just, for a moment, I thought Jimmy had walked through the door.”

Castiel is getting so very tired of hearing that. His hands clench into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms with so much force they nearly break through the skin. As if he needs another reminder of how like and yet unlike his brother he is. If he were anything like the man Jimmy Novak was, he wouldn’t be in this situation at all. He wants to tell her this. He wants to yell this and more. That they can’t possibly understand how that makes him feel.

“Apparently I have that effect,” is what he finally chooses to say. “And then they realize, with disappointment, that it can’t be him, because he’s dead. Then they realize it’s just me. I’m just Castiel. Just Dmitri.” The name leaves a bitter feeling on his tongue. It’s been a long time since he called himself that. But he says it for Hester’s benefit. Because she doesn’t know him.

“Anyway.” The woman clears her throat and changes the subject, easily brushing off Castiel’s words. He can’t say he’s not grateful for that. “Mr. Novak. Thank you for coming. I’m Hester Milton. Claire’s principal.

Castiel nods, though it’s mostly just as a courtesy.

“I want to start by telling you how sorry I am for your loss, and Claire’s too. It must be hard on you both.”

“Please get to the point,” Castiel says. And sure, maybe he’s a bit short, and maybe there’s no reason to be so irritable. But he’s not in the mood for this. He never is, and he never will be.

“Of course. Well, then, I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

Again, he nods.

Hester folds her hands in front of her and leans forward. “You must know that Claire is a very gifted child. Very well-behaved, always top of her class and eager to help and learn.”

Castiel just nods like he has the slightest clue what she’s talking about. As if he’d been there for all her accomplishments. “I’ve noticed she is a very intelligent child.”

“Well,” Hester continues, “her teachers have informed me that since her return, she’s fallen behind. And her attitude has changed noticeably. We are concerned.”

“Isn’t that to be expected?” Castiel frowns and crosses his arms. “She’s missed a considerable amount of school, after suffering a very traumatic event. She has a lot to catch up on. Is it really reasonable to expect her to be caught up on two weeks’ worth of work in less than a week?”

“There should be progress,” is the simple response.

“What does that even mean?”

She gives him a hard look. “How’s her home life, Mr. Novak?”

Castiel feels his heart sink, and suddenly he’s a thousand miles out at sea with no boat and no direction. Of course it comes to this. It always comes to this. _Tell me how you’re good enough to take care of Claire. Prove your worth._ Every time.

He has to pick his words carefully, and he spends a long moment studying the woman in front of him. “As well as can be expected for a child who’s lost everything and is having to readjust. It takes…time.”

“And how are you helping her cope with that?”

He stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“You are correct. Claire has a lot of work to make up on. Of course, we’re willing to give her all the time she needs to get caught. Her teachers have offered to stay after school with her and help her one-on-one. But you, Mr. Novak.” And with that, her gaze becomes almost predatory. “How have you offered to help her? Do you go over lessons with her each night? Have you talked with her?”

_What good are you?_

Castiel remains silent. Truthfully, he hasn’t even thought about all the make-up work she’d have to do, and she hasn’t mentioned anything to him about needing any help. “I trust Claire to come to me, should she need my assistance. With whatever she needs help with.” It’s weak, and he knows it.

The woman—he’s already forgotten her name, but he truthfully doesn’t remember or care enough to remember—scrutinizes him with a deep look, making him feel all kinds of vulnerable and exposed. The same kinds of feelings that he gets when he visits his therapist. He doesn’t know how this woman manages to pull it off.

“What did you say you did for a living, Mr. Novak?”

“I-I’m…” His breath hitches slightly and he can only hope she doesn’t notice it. “Between jobs. I’m…looking for a new one now.” His stomach rolls and he feels that familiar sick feeling he gets whenever he starts to talk about anything like this.

“You know what my impression of you is, Mr. Novak?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “I don’t know what trauma you think you’re suffering from—and I can tell by looking at you. Your eyes are haunted. You look like you’re running from something, maybe your own shadow. Is it your brother’s death that’s hit you so hard? I don’t know. Either way, I think you’re a very egocentric person.”

He swallows hard despite the invisible hand squeezing his throat. He wants to respond. Desperately. But when he opens his mouth to try and form words, nothing comes out. All that happens is that he feels a burning hot fire start to burn through him, starting in his stomach and slowly coiling its way up his throat, spreading its heat.

“I think you’re so caught up in yourself that you don’t pay attention to Claire’s pain and needs.” _You’re not good enough._ “Claire needs you to be able to focus on her, to help her. Do you think your pain is more important than hers?”

And then the fire is fueled, and it takes off. The burning heat forces its way into his mouth, of its own accord, and spills out. Then all he can feel is white hot anger. “And what would you know of trauma?” he hisses, straightening himself and standing up so quickly that his head rushes. There’s a truth to her words that makes everything hurt. He can’t deny that. But she can’t possibly understand. “You, sitting there behind your desk, in your comfortable job, judging everyone who steps into this office. What could you understand about Claire’s life? Or mine? I’m doing everything I can. What gives you the right to judge us?”

That outburst actually seems to surprise Hester, and she fumbles for something to say before her composed mask returns. “I just want to ensure that Claire is taken care of, both in her home life and in her educational career.”

“Of course,” he almost snarls. “How could you understand that all I’m trying to do is make sure that Claire ends up alright? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to insist that I’m doing wrong by Claire when you don’t know the situation. Just because I’m not my brother. If not for Claire, I would…”

There’s more he could say. There’s more he wants to say. So much more. But suddenly no more words form, and his throat closes up. And she’s not worth it. The fight drains out of him, and he’s left feeling exhausted. “I will…speak with her,” he relents finally, each word taking all of his energy to say aloud. “If that’s all, then I…have other matters to attend to.”

She stares at him, and it feels like she’s looking right through him. “Yes. We will continue to keep a close eye on her.” _To make sure you’re treating her right._ “We’ll be in touch.”

He can’t get out of the room fast enough. As he exits, he pretends not to see the dirty look he’s being given, and tries to push back the feeling that, once again, he royally screwed up.

It takes three days before he can work up the courage to actually question Claire about it. When he does finally bring it up at dinner (It’s not much of a dinner. She’s eating grilled cheese and he’s having cold cereal), she shrugs it off.

“It’s not a big deal.”

He frowns, but doesn’t have the courage to look her in the eye when he reprimands her. “Your education is important,” he says while aimlessly stirring the spoon in his bowl. “You should have told me if you’re having trouble. I can help.”

She shoots him an almost disbelieving look, then goes back to pulling the crust off in little pieces and feeding them to Misha. “It doesn’t matter. After this year, I’ll have to switch schools anyway.”

“Why do you say that?”

This time, she looks up long enough to raise her eyebrow at him. “Can you afford to pay for another year?”

He can’t. Not the way things are currently going, anyway. And she knows it. It’s not the first time her wisdom beyond her years has rendered him almost speechless. “I’ll figure something out. Your parents would have wanted—”

“Well, you’re not my parents, so just stop, already.”

The ice in Claire’s voice startles Castiel, and he looks up in shock. She resolutely refuses to look at him. “What’s wrong?” he finally manages, though it seems woefully inadequate.

She huffs. “A lot of things. But I just…I don’t like it at school anymore. Everybody looks at me different. I don’t want to go there anymore.”

Maybe he’s starting to understand. He thinks back to when Claire first came to stay with him, and he tried to take her to church. It didn’t feel right, she’d said. “It’s a reminder,” he muses out loud. “You want a new start.” God, he can understand that.

She doesn’t answer, but after a minute she gets up and leaves the table, and that’s pretty much an answer on its own. After Claire leaves, Misha makes a disgruntled noise and comes to beg besides Castiel, nudging impatiently at his hand. He sighs.

\--

“I’m sorry, Mr…”—The petite, bored-looking woman behind the desk pauses to look down at the papers on her desk—“Novak, but we can’t seem to find a good match at this time.” She says all this without ever making eye contact with him.

Castiel slams his hand on the desk, making the woman jump and look up at him. “Then what good are you?” he hisses. It’s been like this all day. The same pattern. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t given up. This is the fourth place he’s visited and they’ve told him almost exactly the same thing the other three offices told him.

The woman shuffles some things around on the desk, like she’s pretending to look for something to avoid answering him. “You have to understand, Mr. Novak,” she says and Castiel can tell that he’s making her nervous. “We get so many requests. We can’t possibly place everyone immediately.”

“I need to be able to care for my niece,” he insists.

“I understand that, but we can only do so much. People come in here all the time, with whole families to provide for.” She stares at him pointedly. “And they aren’t receiving disability benefits, either.”

A frustrated growl gets caught in his throat, and he swallows it down, trying his best to remain civil. Yelling at this woman until he gets kicked out won’t help his cause. “You look down on me for receiving benefits. In order to be worth your time, I shouldn’t be receiving any kind of aid. Yet you give me no options that allow me to stop receiving aid. And you offer no help. What am I supposed to do? Win the lottery? Beg on the streets and hope I don’t get arrested?”

And then his throat closes up for a few seconds, and he can’t speak. Because his words hit a little too close. If not for Jimmy and Amelia, he could very well have ended up on the streets. If not for them, he most likely would be…

Something he can’t quite think about now.

The woman frowns, and pushes a lock of bleached hair out of hair with a perfectly manicured nail. “I understand your struggle,” she says, though she sounds anything but sympathetic. “I suggest you try one of the VA offices. There are a number of them around here.” She reaches for a pen. “I can give you their number and address and—”

Castiel interrupts her. “I’ve already been to them. Why do you think I’m here now?”

“They can provide you with training—”

“I don’t need training. I need employment.”

She exhales slowly, and Castiel gets the impression that she wants to hurry him out. “I’ve already given you an ample list of places that are often hiring. As well as other employment offices. You told me you weren’t interested. I’m afraid that if you want a job, you can’t be picky and turn down places just because they aren’t glamorous enough for you.”

“I am _physically incapable_ of working every position on that list. I told you that. I require something with no heavy manual labor and little to no interaction. All of those on the list are both physically and mentally taxing. Is there really nothing else?”

The woman looks like she wants to shrug and say “too damn bad.” Instead, she gives him a distinct _that sounds like your problem_ look. “I can take your information and call you if we find a position that fits your…specific requirements. I strongly suggest going back to the VA, or at least apply to a few of those places on the list.” She points with her pen towards a table near the door. “We also have several pamphlets and resources on that table there, where you can find more job and training opportunities, and places to contact. That’s about all I can do. Now, unless there’s something else you need, I have people in line that are waiting. Have a nice day, sir.”

Castiel resists the urge to say more, because it’s a lost cause. “Thank you,” he grits out and snatches the papers that she again pushes towards him. He spins around fast enough that he makes himself slightly dizzy. But he ignores the sensation, straightens his shoulders, and storms angrily out of the woman’s office, past the line of despondent souls staring blankly ahead.

Once he’s out of the building and standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he allows his frustration to escape. He brings the stapled sheets of paper up to his face, staring at them for a moment before his expression twists into a sneer and he rips the stack in half. The papers tear quickly and easily, with little force needed. It’s not very satisfying, but it will do for the moment. They crumple just as easily as he draws his hands into fists, and he throws the pieces to the ground. A gentle wind picks up and blows the bits of paper down the street, and he watches them tumble away, until he can’t see them anymore.

Someone bumps into him from behind, sending him stumbling forward a few steps. Fighting down the rising sense of panic, he turns around just in time to see the scowling, twenty-something male brush past him. “Hey, watch where you’re going, man! Jeez!” the kid says to him as he passes.

Castiel is suddenly aware that he’s still standing in the middle of a semi-crowded sidewalk, and people are constantly passing him. There are so many people, too many people. He fumbles for the pack of cigarettes and lighter that he always keeps in the inner pocket of his coat. Within ten seconds, he has a newly lit cigarette in his mouth and takes a deep drag. After that, he walks. He doesn’t know where. It doesn’t really matter. No matter where he ends up, he’ll find his way back. The only thing that matters right now is finding someplace more secluded.


	7. Chapter 7

“How do you like living with Cas?”

Claire looks up from her plate and takes a moment to consider. “It’s alright, I guess. It’s kind of…weird.” She shrugs and pops another piece of chicken into her mouth. Chicken nuggets and fries. Somehow, he thinks that if Cas knew what he was letting Claire eat, he’d have his ass. Then again, maybe not. He can’t really tell if Cas is the kind of person who seems like a stickler when it comes to healthy eating, or if he’s the kind of person who doesn’t care.

“Weird in a bad way? Or…?” Dean takes a bite of his own burger and presses on.

She shakes her head. “Just different. He confuses me. It’s like I don’t know what he expects of me. I don’t think he knows.”

He fights back the urge to roll his eyes. No need to make Claire think he’s rolling his eyes at her. But yeah, he totally gets that. “I get that impression. Has he always been like that?”

“I don’t think so.” She pauses and furrows her brow in thought. “I haven’t seen him in like six years. He’s always been kind of mysterious, though. Never talked about himself much. Still doesn’t. I don’t know much about him.”

“Does he scare you?” Cas seems like the kind of guy who could be intimidating to people before they get to know him. Though Dean’s pretty sure the dude wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“No,” she answers immediately. “He’s a good person. Mommy and Daddy trusted him to take care of me. I just want him to open up. Daddy told me once that he was sick, but he says he’s better.” She drags a fry through a smear of ketchup and chews on it. “I want him to be better. I think he’s lonely.” Finishing the fry she’d been munching on, she selects another one at random and bites off half of it. “And afraid of something. I don’t know what. Something in his past.”

Dean sets his burger down. Her theory is a fair one. Of all the kids he’s worked with, Claire has got to be one of the brightest. Also one of the sweetest. It’s endearing, but more than a bit troubling. The fact that she can worry about someone else after suffering a huge tragedy herself is admirable. Dean has no doubt that Jimmy and Amelia Novak did a good job raising her. He also has no doubt that a lot of it is simply Claire’s innate personality. But there’s also the potential for her to end up like…well, like her uncle. That, Dean suspects, is what really worries Cas most. Cas doesn’t want Claire to grow up bottling everything in and wind up cold and withdrawn. Whether or not Cas knows the exact symptoms or likelihoods of children developing ptsd, Dean has no clue. All the same, he’s pretty sure both of them are aware of the fine line they’re walking with Claire’s mental health. He just wishes her uncle would realize that he needs to accept help for himself before he’s going to be any good for Claire.

Still, he realizes what a huge deal it must be for Cas. It’s not a train of thought he enjoys parsing through, but he knows deep down that he could have very well ended up in Cas and Claire’s situation. Or worse, he could have ended up like his father. If not for his line of work to keep him sane, and, of course, his brother, then who knows what might have happened.

A cooling, greasy fry hits him square in the face, forcing him back to the present. He blinks a few times at the deceivingly innocent face in front of him. “Really?” he half-whines (Dean Winchester does _not_ whine), drawing his features into a dramatic pout.

She grins up at him, not even a trace of guilt on her face, and shrugs. That is so not fair, because he can’t even really properly retaliate. At least, not without the whole diner giving him dirty looks for throwing food at a kid. “You weren’t answering me.”

Right. They’d been having a serious conversation. He shakes his head to get himself back into “the zone,” then takes a long drink of soda. Technically, he’s still on duty, so unfortunately that means no beer. “Claire, listen to me. You’re a good kid. And these circumstances…whatever’s going on in your uncle’s head, whatever’s bothering him, you know it’s not your fault, right?” It’s important that he tells her this. He needs to make sure she knows, because nobody ever told him that when he was her age and being screwed by the system.

He continues, trying to make his tone as gentle as possible. “Sometimes, you just gotta worry about yourself, alright?”

It takes a moment, but she gives him a hesitant nod. It doesn’t convince Dean.

“So, you want to tell me how _you’re_ doing?”

The look he gets in response is almost fearful. “I’m okay.”

Again, he’s unconvinced, but also unsurprised. Still, if she’s anything like he was as a kid, then he knows better than to question her about it. So he rolls with it, and asks her the same question he asked Cas a week ago. “What do you want, Claire?”

Most of the time, the answer is easily predictable when he asks children in Claire’s situation this question. Usually it’s something along the lines of “I want Mommy and Daddy back.” It’s a valid desire, no matter how impossible, so he doesn’t begrudge a child for wishing. He wouldn’t blame Claire. Sometimes they don’t have an answer at all. But her answer is a little different.

“I just want to have a family again.”

It’s kind of a little bit heartbreaking.

\--

He’s been standing outside Castiel’s front door for at least three minutes. Honestly, at this point, he thinks he’d be more surprised if someone actually opened the door instantly, rather than keeping him waiting. It’s just something he’s come to accept as part of visiting Cas and Claire. Still, it’s almost October, and the temperature outside is just shy of being pleasantly cool. Not to mention, it’s raining (kind of heavily), which makes it colder, so he’s happy when the door finally creaks open.

Instead of seeing Cas’s grumpy I-just-woke-up-and-I-will-smite-you face, it’s Claire that greets him. That’s new. Cas has always been the one to answer the door. From what Claire says, Cas won’t even let her answer the door.

“Hi, Dean,” she says quietly. From behind her, a dog starts barking, and a few seconds later the culprit appears, pressing his face into the gap between Claire’s body and the doorframe. The dog lets out another loud bark at the sight of Dean, and Dean’s willing to bet his tail is wagging to beat the band. It’s Misha, loud and energetic as ever. Claire immediately kneels and shushes him, with eventual success.

Once Misha is subdued, Claire stands up and faces Dean again, cocking her head in a questioning gesture. “What are you doing here? It’s Saturday.” Normally, their appointments were on Thursdays, and Dean doesn’t work on the weekends.

He shrugs. “Just thought I’d stop by and say hi. You know.” Truthfully, he’d thought about what Claire said the other day, about Cas being lonely. And hell, might as well try to make friends with the guy. It’d probably be good for Claire too. Besides, he likes spending time with Claire, anyway. “Mind if I come in?”

Claire shuffles aside, and Dean maneuvers around Misha and enters. A quick survey of the room shows a distinct lack of Cas, not that he’s surprised. “So, where’s Cas?” he asks casually.

“Oh, um, he’s—”

She’s cut off by loud yelling coming from upstairs. Yelling that sounds a lot like Cas, but it’s not quite loud enough for Dean to make out what he’s saying. A female’s voice comes next, in a much softer and more placating tone. More yelling, then a few seconds of silence (or at least, if anything’s being said, it’s too quiet to hear). Finally a door closes and then Hannah appears at the top of the stairs, looking mildly irritated. She descends quickly and goes to stand beside Claire.

“He kicked _you_ out, Miss Hannah?” Claire sounds surprised.

Hannah sighs. “I figured he would.”

“But you’re his friend! Are you fighting?”

“No,” Hannah replies patiently. “Castiel always prefers to be left alone when this happens. He means no harm by it. It’s not easy for him to depend on others, even those he’s close to.” She turns and only then seems to notice Dean’s presence. “And I presume you must have some business here?”

“Uh, no, actually…” Dean rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly at a loss for words. “I just came to visit.”

Hannah raises an eyebrow, as if to say “oh, really,” and then levels him with an intense I’m-going-to-stare-into-your-soul glare. She doesn’t say anything, and Dean’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.

Finally, he bites the bullet and speaks. “What’s up with Cas?”

No one speaks for a long moment. Long enough that Dean begins to wonder if he’s going to get an answer.

Claire is the one who speaks up. “He’s not feeling good again.”

Hannah clarifies before Dean can ask. “He has an old injury, and it sometimes hurts him in cold and rainy weather. He’ll be fine.”

“Oh, well, if he’s not feeling well, I can come back later…” Dean trails off at the end, unsure of what to do with himself.

Hannah actually seems to consider this. “No,” she says eventually. “I’ve done all I can, now, but I don’t like to leave him alone. If you’re here, and you have no other plans, then check on him and see if you can at least get him to take some pain medicine.”

“Uh, sure.”

Satisfied, Hannah nods, and then she’s gone as quick as she came. Dean blinks at the spot she was occupying. Strange woman. He’s starting to see why she’s Cas’ friend. Then he remembers he actually did come to see Cas, and probably should check on him. Claire follows behind him, somewhat hesitantly, as if she’s already been kicked out by Cas.

When he makes it to Cas’ room (with a little direction from Claire), he knocks at the door. Because, hey, guy seems like he likes his privacy, and for all Dean knows he could be jacking off on the other side of the door. He makes a face. And that is so totally not a thought Dean wants to continue thinking about. Time to distract himself. There hasn’t been any response from Cas, so he takes the liberty of slowly easing the door open. “Cas?” he calls, because Dean’s a polite guy. “It’s Dean. I’m coming in.” The room is pitch black, and without thinking he reaches out and flips the light switch on, finding it surprisingly easily.

That gets an immediate reaction from the Cas-shaped lump on the bed. He hisses and shifts just enough to pull the covers up over his head. Just from that little bit of movement, Dean’s pretty sure that it’s his back that’s hurting. And that would make sense, he supposes. He remembers Cas being awfully touchy about having his back touched, soon after Dean had first met him. After Cas’ initial freak-out, Dean hadn’t tried again.

“Turn it off,” the lump groans, barely audible through the sheets.

“Huh?” Dean utters dumbly.

Claire moves around him and then the room is washed in darkness once more. “The light makes his head hurt,” she explains, speaking quietly.

“Ah, shit! Sorry, man,” he says sheepishly. Again, without thinking. This time, though, he realizes his error as soon as Cas hisses again.

“Please lower your voice.”

He tries again. “Sorry.” This time Cas doesn’t wince when he speaks, so he assumes his voice is quiet enough.

“Uncle, are you still hurting bad?” Claire asks softly. “Miss Hannah went back home, but she said she’d call you later.”

Castiel breathes heavily, like he’s preparing himself for something strenuous, and then he’s pushing the bedsheet down and pulling himself into a half-sitting position. “I’m fine, Claire. Thank you.” After that, he shifts until he can swing his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly put his weight on them. He’s swaying on his feet, but he remains upright, at least. Then his gaze shifts, and he stares directly at Dean. “What can I do for you, Dean?” If he’s bothered or surprised by Dean’s presence, he’s not showing it. Though Cas does appear to be very good at hiding things. Even now, he’s obviously trying to hide his discomfort.

Now that Cas is addressing him, Dean finds himself at a loss for words. “Uh, nothing, really…” Wow, that sounds great. Inwardly rolling his eyes at his own sudden ineptitude, he clears his throat and tries again. “I mean, I really just came to say hey. You know, see how you guys were doing. I was gonna come back later when I found out you were feeling bad, but then Hannah asked if I’d check on you, so…here I am.” He has half a mind to tell Cas to lie back down, but he feels kind of uncomfortable telling Cas what to do in this situation. It’s like crossing a more intimate line, and he’s not sure it’s allowed.

It takes a moment to get a response. While he’s waiting for Cas to talk, he takes the opportunity to look him over now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark. Cas really does look like hell. Dean can see that he’s trembling lightly, as if just holding himself up is too much exertion. There are dark circles under his eyes. Darker than normal, anyway. Sleep probably isn’t coming to him very easily. Not with how much pain he must be in. He’s also flushed and sweaty, like he might have a fever to boot. On top of all that, his hair is messy, the button-up shirt he’s wearing is rumpled and buttoned incorrectly, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. Castiel normally looks hyper-alert, never missing a thing, but now his eyes are dull and Dean thinks he could probably punch the guy in the face and Cas would never see it coming. He’s barely half-aware. All in all, he’s a mess.

“Mmm. You talked to Hannah, then?”

Dean shrugs. “Briefly, yeah.”

“She’s worried about me. I snapped at her.” Castiel frowns, and he suddenly looks so sad that Dean almost wants to offer him a hug.

“Dude, you’re in pain. She, um, seems like a tough chick. I’m sure she understands.”

“She does.”

Dean raises a curious eyebrow and waits for Castiel to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what he should be doing. His bedside manner isn’t the best, he knows, and he’s certainly no good at comforting grown men. Fortunately, his next move is decided for him, when Cas makes a pitiful sounding noise, a cross between a whimper and a gasp, and appears to be unable to hold himself up anymore. Dean moves forward instantly, catching him before he falls. In his haste to keep him from falling, Dean’s arms wound up wrapped around Cas, with his hands on his back. He prepares for the other man to push him away, but instead Cas’s eyes squeeze shut and his head leans forward until it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and makes no other attempt to move.

It occurs to Dean that this is also a pretty intimate position. Cas is pressed up against him, almost like he’s trying to become one with Dean. He can feel Cas’ hair tickle the side of his face and neck, and can smell the faint, lingering scent of shampoo from the last time he showered. Dean can both hear and feel Cas’s heart racing, likely from the pain. His own heart is beating almost in tune with Cas’s, though he doesn’t know the cause. Cas suddenly burrows impossibly closer, his forehead making contact with the exposed skin on Dean’s neck, and the heat from his fevered body seeps through the thin shirt he’s wearing, contrasting with the cooler temperature of Dean’s own skin. It’s a testament to how bad Cas must be feeling. He seems anything but the type of person who enjoys cuddling and being close to people.

For a moment, he’s frozen, unable to react. Then Castiel makes another pained noise, and Dean automatically springs into action. “Okay, come on, buddy. Let’s get you back to bed.” Claire comes up beside him, gently tugging on Cas’s arm. Her own way of helping. Together, they manage to get him sitting down. His eyes remain closed, and he breathes like it hurts to do so.

“You ever consider going back to see a doctor?”

Dean’s barely gotten the words out of his mouth when a violent “ _no_ ” tears its way out of Castiel’s throat, accompanied by a firm head shake. The answer comes so quickly and so certainly that it leaves no chance for Dean to question it. Castiel makes it clear that he’s not interested in talking about why he has such a strong reaction to Dean’s suggestion.

“You want me to take a look at it, then?” Dean offers. “If it hurts that bad, there may be something else wrong.”

“There is little you can do. It isn’t a big deal,” Cas assures him.

“Not a big deal, huh? Yeah, you do seem like the kind of guy who would have all his limbs hacked off, call it a mere flesh wound, and threaten to bite the other guy’s legs off.” He laughs a little, to himself.

Castiel stares uncomprehendingly at Dean. “I believe losing all my limbs would be quite a bit more serious than my current predicament,” he says gravely.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”

 

“I have not.”

 

“ _Everybody’s_ seen Monty Python! It’s just a thing that happens,” Dean insists.

 

“That seems like an extreme exaggeration.”

Dean sighs. “Tell me you’ve at least seen—” You know what? He probably doesn’t actually want to know Castiel’s answer. He shakes his head. “Nevermind. But really, how bad does it hurt?” Years of taking care of his younger brother allows Dean to push aside his hesitation and slip into caretaking mode when the situation calls for it. Grown man or not, and all awkwardness aside, he can’t not do anything to help.

“The physical pain is manageable,” Cas grits out.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you Mr. Spock. Would you care to elaborate on that?”

He’s not expecting an answer. Not a useful one, anyway, so it’s a pleasant surprise when Cas actually answers him. It’s not as much as he’s hoping for, but it’s something.

“The memories are more difficult to ignore.”

 _Flashbacks_ , Dean’s mind helpfully supplies. So _that’s_ what’s really bothering him. It makes sense. Dean can understand wanting to pretend certain things never happened, and it’s difficult to do that when there’s a constant reminder on your back all the time. In Cas’s case, literally. He’s not going to ask Cas what happened and how he was injured. He’s not _that_ much of a dick. And if or when Cas wants to unload everything and talk about his trauma, he’s not sure that he trusts himself to be the one to handle that baggage. There’s a reason he’s not a psychiatrist or a clinical social worker, and there’s a reason he primarily works with children. But it doesn’t stop his curiosity.

Apparently Claire’s curiosity isn’t stopped, either. And she isn’t fortunate to enough of a grasp on the situation to know what’s appropriate to ask her uncle. “How’d you hurt your back?”

Cas goes completely still, reminding Dean that he’s still got his hands on Cas’s shoulders. He’s just about to let go when he notices the other man has gone completely ashen in the face, and to be honest, Dean’s kind of afraid he’ll fall over if he lets go.

He must take too long to respond, because Claire prompts him with another question. “I asked Miss Hannah, but she only told me that it was a…” She pauses, and then speaks like she’s trying to imitate exactly what Hannah said in exactly the same way. “She told me it was a ‘work-related accident’ and that it’s been almost two years.”

Cas makes a face that has Dean thinking he’s going to have to go run for a puke bucket, but then he swallows hard and appears marginally more settled. “That…is accurate enough,” he forces out.

Claire clearly isn’t satisfied, perhaps thinking she might be able to get more out of him if she’s persistent. “Was it at your last job? The one where you flew airplanes?”

Raising an eyebrow at the curious wording, Dean makes a mental note to talk to Cas later about what Claire knows. They both wait for Cas to say something. Instead, he just nods, moving hesitantly and slowly.

“But how’d it happen?”

“Does it matter?” Cas counters, a slight edge to his voice.

Undeterred, Claire tries to piece together the puzzle on her own. “Mommy and Daddy always told me planes were very safe. They say it’s hard to hurt yourself in a plane.” Then her face lights up, like she’s figured something out. “Were you in a plane crash?”

Dean hears Cas draw in a quick, uneven breath, and he looks down to see that the other man has covered his face in his hands, and has sort of curled in on himself. At least, as much as he can while still sitting on the edge of the bed. And that’s when it’s made pretty obvious to Dean that Cas has had just about all he can take. He starts to reach out to Claire with one hand, holding his hand up in a “hold on” gesture, and is just about to tell her as much, but Cas beats him to it.

“Claire, enough. If I say yes, will you leave it be? I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice is shaky and breathless and he sounds about three seconds away from a freak out.

Claire notices his distress, but mistakes the meaning of it. She frowns in confusion. “If so, you shouldn’t be afraid or ashamed of it. My parents always told me plane crashes are pretty rare. I know a lot of people die when they happen, but you survived, right? You’re okay, and isn’t that pretty cool?”

Without even knowing all of Cas’s story, Dean’s pretty sure her words, while innocent enough, are not going to be taken well. So he figures it’s time to try and put a stop to this. “Claire, shush, not now,” he says gently. He eases his hand back onto Cas’s shoulder, until he’s gripping him with both hands again (he’d once again forgotten he was still touching the man), and he tries to nudge Cas to lie down. “Come on, Cas, lie down for me, okay. I’ll go get you some pain medicine and—”

The second he tries to move Castiel, the man reacts. He shoots up a little straighter and his eyes snap open, though they’re wild and unfocused. “Don’t touch me!” he shouts, a little hysterically, like a wounded animal.

Immediately, Dean pulls his hands away from Cas and holds them up in front of him, so that Cas can clearly see them both. “It’s alright, man, I’m not going to do anything to you.”

His attempts to calm Cas fail epically. “I don’t need this, both of you hovering over me. All I want is to try and pretend that nothing is wrong, as best as I can. I don’t know what you want of me.”

Dean starts to say something. What he’s planning on saying, exactly, he’s not sure. But before he can even so much as utter a single syllable, Cas shoves him back a foot or so and continues speaking. Dean hadn’t even realized he was still so close.

“Perhaps I should be proud of my battle scar. Is that it? It’s something ‘cool?’” And that sends a whole other wave of confusion through Dean. Because, really? Cas never said anything about scars, thought Dean supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. “Or, just forget about it, right?”

Suddenly Cas is standing again. He wavers, and Dean has to keep himself from going over to steady him. Somehow he feels Cas wouldn’t take kindly to that now. Dean watches as he unbuttons his shirt and slides it off with a wince. “You won’t leave it alone. Fine.”

Cas turns around, bearing his back to them both, and Dean hears Claire gasp. His own eyes widen slightly as he gapes at the sight in front of him.

It really shouldn’t be surprising. The guy’s a combat veteran, after all. Of course it’s likely that he was injured at some point. Especially if he was in a plane crash. That’s bound to leave some nasty wounds. But the scars on his back are, well, they’re something else. Unlike anything Dean’s ever seen.

There are two of them. Huge scars, actually. They take up a large chunk of his back. Each one must stretch nearly a foot down the length of his upper back, starting just above his shoulder blades, and they must be several inches wide at their widest point. They’re eerily symmetrical, running almost perfectly parallel to each other. Not only that, but they look painful. They _still_ look painful. Painful enough that Dean winces in sympathy. Dean can only imagine how much it had hurt after he’d just gotten the injury. It looks like something sharp ripped into his skin and then decided that wasn’t bad enough and burned him too. They almost look like wings, he thinks absently.

Or, more accurately, it looks like where wings _used_ to be. It looks like all that’s left after they’ve been ripped off of him.

Suddenly, Dean remembers when Castiel had asked him to finish dressing the burn wounds on Claire’s back. At the time, Dean had wondered what kind of uncle couldn’t even bother to tend his niece’s wounds without getting squeamish and running out half-way, leaving a virtual stranger to take care of her. And now that he thinks about it, Castiel flinched every single time Dean even got close to his back. Every time he even thought Dean was about to touch him.

Now Dean thinks he understands why these seemingly trivial things bothered Cas so much.

“This is what I have to live with,” Cas chokes out, and Dean’s surprised when it sounds like Cas is really trying hard not to cry. “This is my ‘cool’ reminder of everything I’m trying my hardest to forget. This is my pain. Pain that won’t go away with a doctor, or medication, or anything like that.” Then he shrugs back into his shirt, not bothering to button it back up, and sits down again, head hanging low and looking more docile and submissive than Dean’s ever seen him.

“You know you can talk to me, right? If you got any problems, or whatever? That’s part of my job.” He doesn’t know why he decides to say that now, but he can’t take it back.

Cas’s head tilts up, just a fraction, and for a brief second, Dean thinks he sees a flicker of _something_ pass over his face. Hope, maybe. Followed by fear and uncertainty. And raw pain. Then Dean can practically see Castiel’s carefully carved mask suddenly slide back into place, and just like that, he’s closed off again. Like a statue.

“Will you leave me alone now?” His voice wavers only slightly.

Dean can’t do anything but comply, and he quietly ushers Claire out of the room, ignoring her sad and curious expression.

\--

A few hours later, Dean goes to check on Cas. Cas had asked to be left alone, but it’s late and he really should eat _something_. Dean’s not going to push him or anything. Maybe just ask him if he’s willing to at least try to eat, and leave a plate for him on the nightstand, or something like that. He’s already tucked Claire into bed and called Sam to let him know he’ll be staying overnight to look after Cas and Claire. You know, just in case they need something. Of course, he refuses to consider how domestic this feels. Like he’s just staying over at a friend or a lover’s house. The thought sends a strange, unidentifiable feeling shooting through him. Because he isn’t sure what Cas is. Are they even friends? Cas is his client, but he’s never done this for any client, no matter how cute the kid was. So what is Cas to him? He pushes those thoughts aside, into the “let’s never analyze these” pile. Now he just needs to feel like he’s doing something, and Cas is the only one left who may need help. Hell, he even spent a good fifteen minutes scratching Misha’s belly, because there was nothing else to do.

Cas isn’t in his room when Dean gets there. He checks the bathroom first, because that seems like a logical conclusion, but it’s empty too. So is Cas’s library. In fact, there’s no sign of Cas in any room. It’s mildly alarming, because Dean’s got pretty good hearing, and he thinks he would have heard Cas move around too much. Certainly, he should have heard him leave.

But then he notices the back door is unlocked. He opens it slowly and steps out, shivering slightly at the sudden blast of cold, fall air. Once he’s adjusted enough, he closes the door behind him and looks out into Cas’s tiny backyard. It’s dark outside, but it doesn’t take long to spot Cas.

He’s sitting in the middle of the yard, staring straight up at the sky. Dean can’t help but wonder what he’s doing. “Cas?” he calls softly, not wanting to startle him. In any case, he’s not sure how well his presence will be received.

Cas doesn’t respond, and gives no indication of whether or not he even heard him. Dean takes his chances and moves closer. He’s maybe five feet away when Cas speaks, never taking his eyes off the sky.

“Hello, Dean.”

Well, it’s a step up from Cas yelling at him, or telling him to leave. Still, he sounds so lost and resigned, it makes Dean’s heart ache for the guy, and he’s not even sure why. Now that he’s closer, he can smell the pungent odor of burning tobacco, and if he looks closely he can see the cigarette smoke rising around Cas’ head. It makes Dean wonder if this is how Cas always chooses to brood.

Anyway, he feels like he needs to do something. Cas hasn’t said anything else, but he knows he can’t just stand here all night. He either needs to say something or go back inside. Finally, he works up a little courage.

“You okay?”

Cas huffs out a brief, sardonic laugh. “I believe ‘okay’ is relative.”

Dean shrugs. “Fair enough. Mind if I sit?”

He receives a suspicious stare. He quickly clarifies, “Man, I’m not going to ask you to talk about it. That’s not my way.”

He doesn’t look at Dean, but he waves at the empty space next to him, so Dean takes that as a “go ahead.”

Awkwardly, Dean makes his way over and sits, making sure to keep at least two feet between them. For what feels like a long time, the only noise is the chirping of insects and the distant rumble of car engines zooming by. Periodically, he glances over at Cas, only to find him still staring determinedly upwards. Every once in a while, he’ll take another puff from his cigarette. Even that action manages to somehow look graceful. Wait… _did he really just think that?_ Time to distract himself before he starts having to think about things.

“What are you doing out here?” At the risk of setting Cas off, he continues, “Shouldn’t you lying down, resting your back?”

Fortunately, Cas doesn’t seem upset. He just lazily tilts his head to one side, like he’s trying to imitate a shrug without moving his shoulders. (And considering his back is bothering him, that’s probably exactly what he’s trying to do.) “I was unable to sleep. I needed to move,” he says simply.

Dean can understand that. He remembers during that one time he broke his leg in college, it drove him crazy to be bedbound. Unable to do anything _except_ drown in his thoughts. For Cas, who’s trying so hard to escape from some part of his past, it must be difficult. “So why sit out here? Unless you’re trying to catch a cold to go along with that fever.”

“I wanted to see the stars.”

Cas says it with a such a straight face that Dean can’t possibly believe he’s being anything other than serious. Yet it makes him wonder just how delirious Cas is. “Man, you’re in the wrong place, then,” he chides lightly. “No way you’re gonna see any stars in Chicago. Too much light.”

Instead of agreeing with Dean, Cas turns his gaze away from the sky and looks at Dean for the first time since he came out here. “Do you know why I chose a major in astrophysics?”

Dean gives him a quizzical look and then proceeds to put his foot in his mouth. “I don’t know, why? Linguistics on its own wasn’t difficult enough?”

Cas frowns at him, then shakes his head lightly. He finishes his cigarette, and then stubs it out in an ashtray that Dean didn’t notice was sitting next to him. Before he says anything else, he lights up another one and takes a long drag. Dean bites his tongue to keep himself from saying anything stupid, like telling the guy to quit smoking, or anything like that. Because, really, _it’s none of his business,_ he reminds himself.

“I’ve always found space to be comforting,” Cas explains. “Most people look up at the sky and feel small and insignificant. After all, the universe is vast, possibly infinite. Our sun, which is not a big star by any means, could hold over a million Earths. The largest known star is at least eighteen hundred times the size of our sun. The distance to Pluto, alone, is nearly six billion kilometers, on average. And our solar system extends well beyond that point.”

As Cas speaks, Dean can’t help but notice how content he looks. Dean doesn’t understand everything he says, but he clearly knows what he’s talking about, and it’s obvious that talking about it really does give him some measure of peace. Not that he would admit it to anyone—barely even to himself—but watching Cas talk is more entertaining that actually listening to him.

“Our galaxy itself is a hundred thousand light years in diameter. A number so massive that putting it into kilometers isn’t even practical. One light year—just one—is nearly six trillion miles. The largest known galaxy has a diameter of six million light years. Everything in space is just so incredibly massive. Even distances. The closest galaxy to us, the Andromeda galaxy, is two million light years away. And that’s practically nothing when you consider objects that are so distant we can’t even detect them.”

Cas stops suddenly and looks down, and it almost seems like he’s embarrassed. “Right.” He coughs. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to go on. My point is…” He sighs and takes another drag from the cigarette. “When I look at space, I always felt empowered. I’m part of this massive, ancient...thing. The atoms that we’re made up of are the same ones that once made up stars, billions of years ago. I don’t feel small or insignificant. Well, in a sense, I am. But, you see, my problems seem so trivial when I look up at the sky and know that there’s something so much bigger and more incredible out there. It’s…inspiring.”

Honestly, Dean had never thought of it like that. But what Cas is saying does make some sense, and he’s certainly not going to question it, if it brings the man some measure of comfort. “Not a religious man, then?”

“My brother found comfort in God. After seeing…” He frowns. “After seeing things I’ve seen, I can no longer draw the same comfort.”

“So why aren’t you living out in the middle of nowhere with an observatory? Mountain Man, or something like that? Why live in one of the biggest cities in the states?” It’s probably an insensitive question, but he can’t resist. Dean’s no expert on ptsd, but he gathers that big cities probably don’t do much to help Cas’s mental health. No wonder the guy never leaves his house.

Cas opens and closes his mouth several times, and Dean gets the impression that whatever he’s trying to say is hard for him. “After I was…After I…left the air force, I-I needed… I had to…” He gives up that train of thought and starts another one. “It was not by choice. Certain circumstances required that I be close to my brother. Given the choice, I would much prefer to live somewhere…quieter. Somewhere I can see the stars.”

Dean nods, even though Cas isn’t looking at him anymore. It feels like he needs to say something, but he’s at a total loss for words. What Cas told him is important, he knows that. Any old response just won’t do. Cas saves him the trouble.

“What about you, Dean?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you out here?”

“Oh. I was looking for you.”

Cas shakes his head. “Not what I mean. Surely you must have better things to do. I was merely curious as to why you haven’t returned to your home yet.”

“You know, I’m kind of surprised you haven’t kicked me out, yet. Don’t imagine it’s pleasant company, having someone you don’t like walking around your house.”

It’s Cas’s turn to give him a questioning look. “Why would you say that?”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “I dunno, I just get the impression that you don’t care much for me. It’s cool, though, I get it.”

That actually forces a tiny smile out of Cas. “I don’t dislike you. You must understand, this is difficult for me. _This_.” He gestures to the two of them. “All of this. Trying to take care of Claire, trying to have a ‘normal’ life, I’m not accustomed to it. There are things I can’t do, things I can’t say. Things people take for granted. Having a conversation is not easy. But you are a good man, Dean. That much is not hard to see. And Claire likes you very much, I believe.”

Apparently Dean’s mind can’t decide whether it wants to take a weight off of his shoulders, or whether it wants him to be embarrassed by Cas’s words. He decides shrugging it off is best, because _he doesn’t do feelings_. “So, you thought any about what I asked you?”

Cas sighs heavily and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. “I don’t know. What I want, I mean. I’m honestly not sure I have enough of a free will to be able to consider that question. I’m too broken.” There’s nothing self-deprecating about the way he says it. It’s just like he’s stating a fact. “I’ll be lucky if they don’t take Claire away from me.”

“Hey, don’t say that…” It’s meant to sound comforting, but in Dean’s opinion he totally misses the mark.

Cas laughs bitterly and blows out a breath of smoke.

“Honestly, though. You’ve never thought about what kind of life you want? A wife and kids of your own? Anything like that? You know, living the American Dream?”

For the second time in less than a minute, Cas laughs. This time it’s more genuine, and lasts a good three or so seconds, and Dean is struck by the random and strange thought that Cas actually has a nice laugh, and that he wants to make the man laugh again.

“Children, perhaps. I can’t rule it out. I’ve never thought about it. But I’m fairly certain a wife is far out of any vision of an ‘American Dream’ that I might have.”

Cas is implying something with that statement, Dean is sure of it. And if Cas is implying what Dean thinks he is, then he really doesn’t understand why his chest suddenly feels so light and airy, as if his heart is slowly floating out of his chest.

“What about you? What does your version of the so-called ‘American Dream’ include?”

Damn. Of course Cas would throw that back at him. “Uh…” He stalls for time. “Truthfully? I don’t know. Right now, I’ve got my brother, a best friend, and a good job. I guess I figure when the time’s right I’ll meet someone and settle down. For now? I’m good.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, and when Dean glances up he sees Cas staring at him—intently—with a peculiar look on his face. A look that Dean can’t place. He can’t bring himself to say anything about it, so he just stares back at him with a puzzled look. Though he can’t help but feel like Cas is trying to have a silent conversation with him, and he’s just shutting him down. The stare-down must go on for at least half a minute. Long enough that Dean starts to feel awkward again.

Abruptly, Cas looks away, staring down at the forgotten remnants of the cigarette in his hand. “That must be nice,” he says at last, voice rough with some foreign emotion.

Shit. He has no idea what he did, but somehow he thinks he’s upset Cas. This is precisely why he doesn’t have deep conversations with people. Not outside of his work, anyway. That’s entirely different. He’s fumbling for something to say but Cas beats him to it once again.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Uh, sure?” This could go several ways, and not all of them positive, but Dean takes a chance.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t really want to. It’s just for my own curiosity.”

“Shoot.”

“Why did you choose to become a social worker? From what I gather, you are somewhat uncomfortable discussing feelings and other deep subjects, primarily when it involves you in some way.”

Dean’s own walls go up and his defensive mechanism kicks in. “Because going to school for social work was a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to become a psychiatrist. Lot less school, too.” He shoots Cas a lopsided grin.

Cas’s eyes narrow in a small frown. It’s not an angry frown, though. More like a thoughtful one. Dean can’t help but feel like Cas is staring right through him, trying to pick him apart from the inside out. “I understand,” he says at last, “your reluctance to open up about certain things. I think I do, at least. Perhaps we can offer a trade.”

Dean tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, signaling for Castiel to proceed.

“If I am to become comfortable to the point where I can be open with you, then I hope you will share something with me in return.”

“Alright, fine,” Dean says. It should concern him—the fact that he doesn’t even have to think before he agrees to something like that. Because he’s pretty damn sure Cas wants to be friends. On a heavier note, he thinks Cas also just admitted that he wants to get better. Specifically, he wants _Dean_ to help him get better. Dean’s doesn’t know how to take that. His mind unhelpfully provides him with the same question he asked Cas: _What do you want out of life?_ Followed by the image of Cas staring at him with that strange look, like he’s figuring out exactly what he wants and is too afraid to take it. Dean’s has no clue what all this means, yet.

Cas crushes the last bit of his cigarette into the ashtray and then shifts. A wince spreads across his face, reminding Dean of the reason he’s still here in the first place. “I may require assistance standing up. I’ve been sitting here too long.” Dean can’t tell if the look on his face is one of embarrassment, frustration, or both.

He sits there staring at Cas for a second to long, then the meaning of what Cas is saying hits him. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Hang on.” He stands, taking a second to brush his pants off, then steps over to Cas and holds his hands out. To his relief, Cas does his best not to make it awkward, grabbing Dean’s hands in an almost professional grip. Dean pulls him up slowly, and when is fully upright, there’s less than a foot of distance between them. Even in the dim light of the night, Dean can see the intense blue of Cas’s eyes, staring directly into his own. It should make him uncomfortable, but it’s kind of…striking.

“Thank you,” Cas says in that low rumble of his, and just like that, he pulls away and the spell is broken. Dean watches his back as he slowly shuffles back into the house.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean doesn’t know why he’s here. Well, that’s not entirely true. He knows exactly why he’s here. What he doesn’t know is why he feels such a pressing urge to be here. He shifts uncomfortably, suddenly feeling way too hot in his suit jacket, and he regrets not opting for casual dress. Although Hannah’s house is in Castiel’s run-down neighborhood, it seems out of place. It’s cleaner, brighter, and well-kept to an almost clinical precision. The furniture and décor is nicer than the house itself. Cas’s house is dark, less organized, full of mess and knick-knacks from who-knows-how-long-ago that he clearly lacks the energy or desire to sort through, and appears to be more of a hideaway than a house. If he recalls correctly, Cas told him Hannah works as a CAN, no doubt making enough money that she could probably live in a better neighborhood if she wanted. But Dean has a feeling that her choice in accommodation is centered around Cas.

Hannah must see the dilemma on his face, because she squints at him and gives him a curious look from where she sits across from him. She sits up straighter. “Would you say that this visit is one of professional obligation?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Kind of. I’d like to think it is.”

Hannah scoffs. “I suppose that makes you a dedicated worker.”

Dean can’t help but laugh. “Yeah…sounds good, doesn’t it?”

The dark-haired woman doesn’t answer that, and instead continues to stare at him, waiting for him to speak.

Why is he here? _Really_ , why is he _really_ here? He’s had more difficult clients than Castiel, and he’s never gone to this much effort to try and understand them. Mostly, he’s just done minimum that’s expected of him until his obligation to them was up. And he could do the same with Castiel. He could go to his boss and say that the man isn’t able to provide for Claire, and that would be that. But doing that would feel horribly wrong. There’s a bigger problem at work, one that may go much deeper than Cas’s mental state. He’s already in way over his head, and now he feels compelled to stick it through until the end. Giving up now would be like a betrayal of that very fragile trust he saw forming in Cas last night. So he’s going to get answers, and he’s going to find a solution.

“How long have you know Cas?” Dean figures it’s a good place to start.

Hannah seems unsurprised. “Almost eight years,” she replies, almost fondly. “We served together.”

“Ah.” Now that makes sense. Hannah does have this strict aura about her. Like a soldier. “So you know what…happened to him.”

Hannah’s lips twitch, but Dean can’t tell if the motion is supposed to be a smile or a frown. “Are you referring to Castiel’s physical or mental scars?”

“Well, I was thinking about the scars on his back, but, uh, both, I guess.”

“He showed you those?” Now that gets a reaction out of her, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say there was a spark of jealousy in her eyes. But what does she have to be jealous about? Suddenly, that moment where Cas dropped his shirt and bared his back carries a lot more weight.

“Yeah, kind of.” Stupid. There’s no “kind of.” Either he did or he didn’t. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly willing…” Okay, that’s definitely a mama bear look on Hannah’s face. “I didn’t force him or anything. I think he was trying to explain something and got frustrated because he couldn’t put it into words.”

Hannah sighs. “If you’re here because you want me to tell you his story, then no, I can’t do that. You read his medical file, didn’t you? Everything you need to know and more is already there. I won’t let you have that much power over him.”

“Hey,” Dean says defensively. The way she says that makes him sound like some kind of stalker. “I don’t go poking and prodding, alright? I only look at what I need to know in order to do my job. Just to make sure he’s not dangerous. That’s it. I didn’t even know his plane crashed until Claire figured it out. I just knew he was discharged for an injury, and he spent some time in the psych ward for his ptsd.”

“Castiel is not dangerous.”

“I know he’s not. And I’m not here to ask you about any of that.”

Hannah crosses her arms and levels him with an icy look. “Then what do you want from me, Dean Winchester?”

He means to answer her question, but then his mind zeros in on something she just said, and he can’t stop the burning curiosity. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t want me to have that much power over Cas?”

“Castiel is fond of you. It’s not often that he opens up to anyone.”

Dean snorts. “I wouldn’t exactly call him ‘open,’ you know.”

Hannah tilts her head. “Look at it this way. It took more than a month before he would show me his wounds. The only reason I saw them was because I found out he’d been trying to change the bandages on his own after he was released from the hospital. I pushed him, then, and he wouldn’t speak to me for a week after that. His own brother never saw them, and Castiel never said a word to Jimmy about what he’d gone through. In time, he may come to you for help.”

Another random thought strikes him. “Claire said that she thinks he’s lonely. Is he?”

“Yes.”

Hannah answers him so quickly and certainly, and in such a matter-of-fact tone that Dean feels like someone just stabbed him in the heart and he winces in sympathy. “Has he ever had a...you know?”

She gives him an impatient look, and he sighs. “A…uh, a lady friend? To keep him company?” It’s strangely hard to say.

Hannah smiles, and a hint of amusement twinkles in her eyes.

“What’s so funny?”

She shakes her head. “Never, to my knowledge. Although it may be more appropriate to ask if he’s ever had a boyfriend. I believe the answer to that would also be no.”

A boyfriend. Although it’s confirming what Castiel himself had already heavily implied, it still hits Dean like a slap in the face. “So he’s gay?”

Hannah’s eyes narrow. “Does that trouble you?”

“No! No, of course not.” There’s definitely some feeling stemming from that knowledge, but he can’t pinpoint it. It doesn’t feel like a negative feeling. “He just…doesn’t really seem the type. I don’t know.”

Hannah shrugs. Dean sits there awkwardly until she sighs again, uncrosses her arms, and leans forward slightly. “Surely you must see my hesitation to trust you with any sensitive information regarding Castiel.”

“You totally just outed him.”

“Only because I know he wouldn’t care. He’s never hidden that from anyone. And I need you to understand something, so listen closely.”

Hannah seems serious, so Dean does his best to give her his full attention.

“If you wish to pursue friendship with Castiel, I cannot stop you. But do not lead him on if you have no intention for anything more.”

“Whoa, whoa!” He throws up his hands. “Hold on, are you saying he’s interested in me? Like, romantically interested?” Because that’s just not possible.

“Not yet. I can’t say for certain. I haven’t asked him and have no intention of doing so. I would rather him not, since I sense from your reaction that you would not feel the same. One of our fellow airmen once said something about him. He said too much heart was always Castiel’s problem. It may not seem like it to you, because you don’t know him well, but that is, essentially, Castiel in a nutshell. He loves too much, trusts too easily, gives too much of himself. That’s why I can’t tell you anything. If I tell you about his past, his fears and insecurities—anything that could trigger him—then it would be too easy for you to turn around and break him.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, to say he’s not that cruel, that he’s not out to hurt the poor guy, but Hannah cuts him off with a sharp look. “I can’t allow you to hold that over him. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you in his own time.”

She stops abruptly, and it takes a long time for her to speak again. When she does, her voice is low and threatening. “Castiel is…a dear friend of mine. I don’t want to see him broken. I tell you this as a warning. You are meddling far beyond your business. If you break him, I will make you regret it.”

Dean believes her.

Then, her face softens until she gets a sad look on her face. “Let me say one more thing, as Castiel’s friend. I hope he does come to lean on you, and I hope you will receive him kindly. I cannot provide the kind of help he needs. More than anything, I want him to get that help, and to be happy. As much as I don’t want to see him broken, I also don’t want him to be trapped anymore.”

Dean leaves Hannah’s house with his heart and his mind feeling heavier than before he came.

\--

“So you’re the famous Castiel.”

Castiel squints at the tall man on the other side of the door. “Excuse me?”

The man laughs kindly. “Sorry. It’s just...Dean talks about you all the time. I’m glad you came. As I’m sure you can guess, I’m Sam.” Sam holds out a hand, and after staring long enough that Sam starts to look uncomfortable, Castiel hesitantly grips Sam’s hand and gives the best handshake he can muster up.

“Dean also speaks of you often. He’s very proud.”

Sam easily brushes off his brief discomfort, and rolls his eyes, looking embarrassed. “I guarantee, he’s exaggerating most of it. Anyway, come in.”

Castiel steps inside. Sam and Dean’s neighborhood is…nice, to put it modestly. Their house, which is by no means close to being the fanciest on the block, is nicer than any house he’s ever lived in—or even set foot in for any extended period of time, for that matter. Sam is, according to Dean, a highly successful lawyer, despite being so young. Sam looks even younger than he is. He knows Sam is Dean’s younger brother, and though he’s not sure of the exact ages, he knows that Dean is around his own age. Sam can’t be any older than thirty.

And here he is, basically a bum in a dirty trenchcoat and wrinkled suit, standing uncertainly in the foyer and feeling even more out of place now that he’s actually in the house. He’s just wondering whether he should take his shoes off when Sam interrupts his mental debate.

“Sorry for the short notice,” Sam says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. “I wanted to talk with you as soon as possible.”

“It’s not a problem. I have no current obligations,” Castiel assures him. “I apologize for taking up some of your free time. I imagine that must be hard to come by.”

Sam just shrugs. “Yeah, well, that’s the job. I knew going in that I’d have to give up my social life.” He chuckles softly and shakes his head, as if remembering a fond memory. “Of course, according to Dean, I never had one to begin with. Here, come on. You don’t have to stand there.” He beckons Castiel forward, and Castiel follows a few feet behind him. “I thought we could talk in the living room, if that’s alright?”

Castiel nods, then realizes that Sam is in front of him and can’t see it. “That’s fine.”

Sam continues, “Usually, I do this kind of stuff at my office, but I thought you might be more comfortable here rather than at an office in the middle of downtown.”

Castiel isn’t sure that it matters, but he appreciates the sentiment. “Thank you,” he says, hoping it does convey some gratitude. “You have a lovely home. You and Dean must have worked very hard to acquire and maintain it.”

Sam turns back to face him and gives him a bashful grin. “Well, it’s mostly thanks to the inheritance we got from our mom.”

“I was unaware that your mother was dead. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happened a long time ago. I don’t even remember her. Dean’s the one it really affected. He was four when she was killed in a house fire. Well, that and our dad, I guess, but not nearly in the same way. That’s a whole other story.”

A house fire. Like Claire’s parents. Castiel wonders if that’s one reason she and Dean click so well. It’s also equally possible that Claire doesn’t know that bit of information. Dean isn’t very forthcoming when it comes to talking about his family, save for his brother. Maybe he’s different when talking to Claire.

“Anyway, it’s a good thing she left everything in the hands of a good family friend, or Dad would have spent the whole thing long before we were old enough to inherit it.”

Sam must realize he’s gone off on a tangent, because he cuts himself off mid-sentence with a surprised “oh!” and gives Castiel another embarrassed look. “Sorry, I know you probably aren’t interested in hearing about all that.”

“I don’t mind.” He finds that he means it. Sam seems kind-hearted, and he decides that he likes Sam.

The other man leads him into a large living room, complete with a grand fireplace and wall-high window. “Here,” he says, gesturing to a very soft looking couch. “Go ahead and sit down while I go get some papers. Dean told me your back was hurting the other day. I’m sorry to make you stand so long. Is it still bothering you? I noticed you’re kind of walking a little funny.”

“It’s alright now,” he says, though he does lower himself into the couch, which is indeed as soft as it looks. And it’s mostly the truth. It’s far better than it was a couple of days ago. He’s a little annoyed by Sam’s doting, but it seems so innocent that he can’t bring himself to say anything.

A few minutes later, Sam comes back in with a folder and a small tray with two cups of coffee. He sets the items down on the coffee table and hands one of the cups to Castiel. “If you’d rather have tea or something else, it’s not a problem. It’s just black coffee. I didn’t know what you liked. I just figured…”

“This is fine.” Castiel accepts the cup and takes a sip. “Thank you.”

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Despite the fact that he’s wearing casual clothing and sitting in his own home, Sam is in full lawyer-mode now, and Castiel can’t not be slightly unnerved by it.

“Ah, that.” Castiel stares down at his cup. “Claire’s grandparents called me recently.” It was actually the same day his back really started hurting. Now that he thinks about it, that may explain why this particular bout of pain was so emotionally taxing. Outside stress never makes it easier to deal with the memories.

“What did they want?” Sam asks patiently.

“To ‘check up on things,’ presumably.” He can’t keep the bitter note out of his voice. “I’ve only met them a handful of times, but they’ve never cared for me. I don’t think they were impressed.”

“Do you think they want to take Claire?”

Castiel chokes on his coffee. He hadn’t been able to say it out loud—it hurt too much. But Sam hit the nail on the head. Dean’s right. Sam is incredibly smart. He picks up on the problem without Castiel having to say much at all. “Yes,” he admits quietly.

“What did they say? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well, they won’t tell me outright. But they’re very patronizing. They both kept mentioning how they’d love to see Claire again, that they think it’d be good for her. That maybe she should come and spend some time with them. And oh, how it would be good for _me_ too, because I could have a break. Make sure to call them if it ever becomes too much. As if Claire is a burden on me.” He looks up at Sam, suddenly feeling desperate. “Claire could _never_ be a burden.” He’s almost pleading, but he needs someone to understand. In many ways he is inadequate, and it’s hard—extremely hard—but none of that is Claire’s fault.

“Let me see what I can do,” Sam says, flipping through the papers.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel blurts out. He needs to say something to distract himself. “You’re doing all this work, and I have no idea when I’ll be able to pay you.”

Sam gives him an incredulous look, as if the thought of being paid never even crossed his mind. “Don’t worry about it, alright? You seem like you could use a break.”

Castiel can’t say anything in response, so he just stares at his coffee cup until Sam speaks again.

“How long has it been since Claire came to stay with you?”

He actually has to think for a minute, and it’s a little embarrassing. Keeping track of time has never been a strong point of his, and now it’s even harder. “I believe it’s been a little over a month.”

“So you’ve got roughly a month left to file for permanent guardianship,” Sam muses. “Alright, well it’s helpful that you were specifically named in your brother’s will. Generally, the court likes to keep to the wishes of the parents if at all possible. Also, you’re young. Do you know how old Claire’s grandparents are?”

He’s sure he’s been told before, but it’s been a long time and it probably wasn’t important enough at the time for him to care to remember. Ever since he joined the airforce, his life has been almost entirely separated from his twin’s. “They must be in their sixties, at least. Possibly seventies. I believe her grandfather is starting to have health problems.”

Sam scribbles something onto a piece of paper, and then sets the pen down. “I’m sure you’ve been told this, but if you’re able to work at all, then you really need to have a job. Even if you make enough on disability to support yourself and Claire, it’s going to make you look like you can’t take care of her.” He adds, as an afterthought, “You _can_ work, right? From what I understand by reading the paperwork Dean showed me, you were discharged from the uh, mental hospital under the pretense that you could at least perform part-time work.”

Castiel huffs softly. Being released from that hellhole means absolutely nothing. He’s not actually certain that he didn’t come out worse off than when he went in. “It was in their best interest to get rid of me as soon as possible.” He doesn’t like thinking about that awful half a year, and would really rather not go into depth about the subject, so he tries to give Sam just enough information that he can hurry up and change the subject. “My insurance would only pay for six months—that was all that was deemed necessary, in my case—and of course, it looks better for the hospital if they can say I was ‘cured’ and not kicked out.”

“Regardless, by the books, you’re able to function.”

“Yes, but you must understand that I do have special requirements, and it is difficult to find a job that meets those. Especially within a tight timeframe.”

Sam gives him a half-smile. “Relax. I know that. I’m not trying to put you down. I’m saying that, even if you don’t feel ‘cured,’ you are in the eyes of the state. It makes you look more competent that way. If you can get some good employment, then it’ll look good. And I think I can help you with the employment part.”

“What do you mean?” He eyes Sam warily.

“Me and Dean know some people,” Sam says simply, and picks up the pen again, making another note on the paper. “I’ll talk to them and see what comes up.”

Castiel isn’t sure whether to feel uncomfortable or relieved. “I don’t want to be a pity case.”

“Not at all.” Sam shakes his head. “I think I may be able to find something that would fit you. Got anything else that may help?”

Castiel thinks. “I wouldn’t exactly call it employment, but I’ve done occasional work online when money has been particularly tight.”

“Online work?”

“People will often need documents translated. Students, business owners, you can imagine. I can usually help. The pay is decent, particularly for academic papers.”

That seems to further brighten Sam’s outlook, and he makes another note. “So I can probably make the case that you’re not totally unemployed. Is there something else you’re worried about?”

It’s kind of disconcerting, the way Sam is able to see right through him and almost guess what he’s thinking, and pin-point specific problems. It’s probably a good trait for a lawyer to have. “Claire’s school has been contacting me very frequently. The principal insisted on speaking with me. I don’t think they trust me.”

“Well, Claire’s already got a social worker on her case, there’s not much they can honestly do, as long as she doesn’t come to school with bruises or acting suspiciously. Which I don’t think is a problem. Just make she’s keeping up her grades and functions as well as can be expected.

“Yes…” His eyes slowly slide across the room until they rest on the fireplace. “Ever since they first contacted me, I’ve been trying to help her. I can’t do much. I believe she’s doing somewhat better.”

“Just do what you can, Cas.”

Sam’s use of Dean’s nickname for him doesn’t go unnoticed, but he doesn’t mention it. It probably doesn’t mean anything.

“Now let’s see what else we’ve got…”

It’s difficult to keep track of time. Time moves exceptionally slowly, especially since this whole meeting hadn’t been something he was looking forward to, and it’s emotionally draining. Sam is kind and patient, but he still feels like he’s being interrogated. Perhaps it’s not quite as bad as the first time he spoke with Dean, but it’s not pleasant.

It must be at least two hours before Sam closes the folder and leans back in his seat. “Okay, so I’ve got a basis to start with. I’ll fix up the paperwork and make a few calls, and get back to you if I find anything that will help you out, alright?”

“Thank you,” Cas says, refusing to meet Sam’s eye. He still feels like Sam is wasting his time, but it’s too late to turn back.

“Dean’s got a good judge of character, you know,” Sam says. “He’d want me to help you, and I wanted to meet you so I could see who’s captivated his attention.”

If Castiel hadn’t had so much practice suppressing his feelings, he probably wouldn’t have been able to stop the blush that threatened to cover his face. “Oh,” is all he can manage to say. After a moment of silence, he glances up to see Sam giving him a strange look.

“Is there something you want to ask me?”

Sam startles. “Um! It’s just…I’m just trying to figure out why my brother is so invested in you. I’ve never seen him treat a case like this before.”

“Have you figured it out yet?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Sam frowns, as if this is difficult puzzle that he’s been trying too hard to solve.

They sit in silence, with Castiel feeling increasingly more uncomfortable by the minute, until Sam finally gathers up the courage he needs and speaks.

“Okay, so…I apologize if this sounds weird, and…don’t take it the wrong way or anything, but...what are your feelings about my brother?”

That’s not the kind of question he’s expecting, and it throws him off guard. “I don’t understand.”

“Like…” Sam breaks off and sighs in frustration. “Do you like him?” He’s clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Would you want to call him a friend? Get to know him better?”

“Ah.” Castiel shifts. He clears his throat. Crosses his arms across his chest. Uncrosses them. “Dean is...I’m not very good at…” He stops. How can he adequately answer that?

Sam stares at him, and Castiel can practically see those puzzle pieces fitting themselves together in his mind.

He tries again. “I believe he has become an important part of Claire’s life, certainly. Mine as well, I suppose. What will become of that once his obligation to us is up, I do not know. I hope…”

That sentence is one he absolutely can’t finish. So he shuts his mouth and hopes Sam’s curiosity is satiated.

“Dean likes you,” Sam adds. “He wouldn’t go out of his way otherwise. He’ll do anything to help someone he cares about. His loyalty is hard to earn, but once you’ve got it then you’ve got it for life. The way he is with you, I’ve never seen him like this before.”

He wishes he could block Sam’s words out. It’s too much to deal with. Analyzing them could lead to too many incorrect conclusions, unhappy endings. It also makes him think about some painful truths. He’s becoming too reliant on Dean’s help. There’s no guarantee Dean will always be there. It would really be better to assume that nothing will come out of their relationship, regardless of his own wishes. That way, when Dean does eventually walk out of his life, it won’t be as hard. He stays silent.

“I think I’m starting to get it,” Sam says quietly, as if he’s merely talking to himself.

Castiel dearly hopes he’s not. He’s trying to fix himself. He can’t bare himself open like that. Not when he’s got something to lose.

\--

True to his word, Sam calls him the very next day. Apparently, Dean has a friend who owns a little bookstore just within the downtown area, and it specializes in rare books. Where she procures all of these finds, Castiel isn’t sure. But she’s already amassed quite the collection. Many of them are quite old, and a lot of them deal with religious or occult subject matter. The store itself is fairly new, but is already gaining a substantial business. Mostly in the form of students looking for research material and young people interested in strange new things to read, but it’s something.

Dean’s friend needs someone to help sort through the books and archive them according to different subjects. She also needs someone who can translate some of the works that are written in foreign languages. She agrees to hire him before she even meets him. It’s not full-time, but it’s enough for now. And he still gets to keep his disability checks. Ideally, he doesn’t want to have to depend on them at all, but there’s only so much he can do at one time.

Charlie is eccentric, to say the least. She’s direct and blunt, but also friendly and happy-go-lucky and she’s a good match with Dean’s personality. She also makes references to shows that he doesn’t understand, and balks at him when he gives her a blank face. Her teasing is good-natured, and she makes it her personal mission to try and get a smile out of him.

As far as jobs go, it’s probably better than anything he could have gotten on his own. Charlie seems to get that he needs space, and allows him to stay in the back of the store, for the most part. The work isn’t that hard. He’s good at burying himself in the books and getting lost in his work. Going through a mountain of books and trying to categorize them provides a welcome distraction from the real world. It allows him to dull his mind and focus entirely on the pages in front of him. It’s also…therapeutic, in a way, to be able to place each book in its proper group. He’s having trouble getting his own life together, but he can at least make sure all these books fit.

He’s been there for three days when he catches her eying him with a strange smirk on her face.

“You’re totally Dean’s type, I bet.”

The book he’s holding slips out of his hand and falls to the floor, the pages splayed wide open.

“I’m sorry?”

Charlies waves his blunder off and continues on like nothing happened. “I’ve been friends with Dean since college. I probably know him better than he knows himself.”

“I was under the impression that Dean’s type falls in the opposite gender,” he says, a unidentifiable feeling making it difficult to get the words out.

“I have a gay-dar,” she says, as if that explains everything. She taps a finger to her temple and smiles slyly. “I can tell these kinds of things.”

“I’m not sure what that is.”

“It means I’m a raging lesbian who happens to have a knack for detecting other raging queers.” She reaches out and pats his shoulder, brushing off the small flinch. “Although Dean’s so far in the closet I bet he doesn’t even know. But! For example, you.” She points a finger at him and gives him a devilish grin. “I’m betting you have a thing for Dean?”

Castiel attempts to avoid the subject by gathering up a pile of stray books that need to be put into the “European witchcraft” section. She reads him surprisingly well, but he’s not ready to deal with the consequences of admitting anything out loud yet.

She chases after him. “Hey, hey! You’re not allowed to do that sulky quiet thing. Dean does that and it’s infuriating. Seriously, though.” It’s the change in her tone that makes Castiel turn around and entertain whatever she’s about to say.

“I know what you’re thinking. I bet you’re confused. Maybe even afraid. I wouldn’t push you to do anything—I know from experience with Dean that it doesn’t work. Dean told me what you’re trying to do for your niece, and it’s really admirable. But take care of yourself too. If you ever did decide you wanted to go for something more with Dean, I’m telling you that I really think you’d have a chance. Don’t hold yourself back, okay? I think you’d be good for each other, whether as friends or something more.”

Castiel looks down at the worn cover of the book on the top of his stack.

“Now come on, new best friend.” Her demeanor becomes playful again, and she gives him a tiny nudge. “Let’s get to work.”

\--

He’s not sure how Dean and Claire managed to talk him into this. It’s a bad idea. A very bad idea. He hasn’t been in close proximity with Dean since they talked in his backyard. Not to mention the whole thing is so far out of his comfort zone. He doesn’t do friendly gatherings. Just doesn’t know how.

His therapist even told him that it’s a good thing for him to challenge himself and stretch his limits. That alone proves this is a bad idea. But it’s too late to back out. Besides, this is important for Claire. She needs some kind of social life, even if it’s not with people her age. He wishes he’d asked Hannah to come, but she’s busy, and hates this kind of thing almost as much as he does. Well, it’s not that he _hates_ it, per say. To most people, this kind of thing is nothing. He just personally doesn’t deal well in these situations. The fewer the people, the better.

And to make matters worse, Dean told him this is a family tradition. _Family_. He can’t possibly fit in here. He can’t possibly be family. The very thought of it causes his chest to constrict painfully, like someone is squeezing his heart with as much strength as they can muster. He can’t even pretend.

Misha barks at a car that zooms down the street, and Castiel jumps. Claire tugs at his leash and shushes him. Of course, she’d insisted that Misha come along. Ostensibly because she thinks he’d be lonely all alone in the house. And Sam and Dean both agreed that the dog was welcome to come. Albeit, Dean was a bit reluctant at first. Castiel suspects that Dean has trouble turning Claire down.

The front door opens abruptly, and Castiel jumps again. Today’s not one of his better days. It could be because the nightmares kept him up, once again, or it could be completely random. Or it could be partly because he had to drive to Dean’s house, and that’s never good on his nerves.

“Hey,” Dean greets him cheerfully. “Glad you brought the family.”

Despite the fact that Dean’s speaking in a light-hearted, joking manner, it still causes a mixed reaction to hear the word “family.” It’s bittersweet.

Castiel steps back to allow Claire and Misha to enter first, and then he steps inside. Before he makes it two steps, Dean stops him by holding out a hand.

“You alright?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “You look tired. Well, I mean, you always look tired…but even more so.”

Castiel frowns. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m alright.”

“Well, you can always just crash on the couch while we watch a movie or whatever. Nobody’s gonna give a shit if you fall asleep.”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Dean shrugs. “Whatever, man.” He leads the three of them into a living area—a different room than the one he spoke to Sam in last week. This room is smaller, cozier, with an impressive sized TV on the wall, an entertainment center, and several chairs and couches.

Claire blinks, wide-eyed. “Whoa. This is nice.”

Charlie chooses that moment to enter the room. She chuckles softly. “Wait ‘til you see the rest of the house. You’ll never want to leave.”

Dean rolls his eyes at her. “Yeah, you say that to justify the fact that you basically live here.”

She grins innocently, and then waves when she notices Castiel standing beside Dean. “Hi, Cas!”

“Hello, Charlie.”

By now, Claire has taken Misha off his leash and he’s wasting no time in running around to explore. When he comes up to sniff at Charlie’s feet, she squeals in delight. “Oh! He’s so cute! I didn’t know you were bringing your dog!” To Misha’s delight, she kneels to pat him on the head. “What’s his name?”

Claire beams proudly. “He’s Misha! Uncle Cas named him. He’s a really good boy!”

“Of course he is!” Charlie coos.

Castiel looks over and notices Dean fighting back a smile. He sighs. “I apologize. I can put him back on a leash if you’d rather.”

“Nah, there’s nothing here that he can really hurt. Not that he can get to, anyway.”

“You underestimate this dog’s ability to get into trouble. He will find a way.”

That elicits a full-body laugh out of Dean, and although Castiel doesn’t think it’s so funny, he decides that Dean’s laughter is a nice sound.

Sam comes into the room next, carrying a few dvds. “Okay, well, Dean picked all the movies, so watch at your own risk.”

“Hey! My taste in movies is great, thank you very much. Besides, Charlie helped.”

The younger brother rolls his eyes and then turns to Castiel. “Nice to see you again, Cas.”

Castiel nods politely. “You too, Sam.”

“Right!” Dean claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “I’m going to get snacks, then everyone’s going to shut up and watch Star Trek and love it. Got it?”

He starts to head towards the kitchen, then stops and looks back at Castiel. “Hey, Cas, you want a beer?”

“No.”

“You sure? Everyone else is having one. Might help you unwind.”

He stares Dean dead in the eye and whispers, “I know. I’ve tried it.” And something about that must get to Dean, because for a moment he seems to forget what he’s doing. He just gives him this funny look, almost like he’s not really seeing Castiel. It’s as if his mind is somewhere else entirely. It makes Castiel wonder what he’s seeing. Then he shakes himself out of his stupor and clears his throat.

“So, you really don’t drink at all?”

“No, I don’t.”

Dean nods. “Alright, that’s fine. Uh, I’ll be right back.” And he hurries out of the room.

He returns fairly swiftly, and everyone gets settled. Sam and Charlie end up on one couch, and much to Claire’s dismay, Misha chooses to curl up at Sam’s feet, having taken an instant liking to him. Castiel winds up sitting with Dean, and Claire squeezes in between them.

There’s something about sitting there with the two of them—watching a movie as if they do it all the time—that really tugs at Castiel’s heart. It’s a feeling he could get too used to. And that’s a dangerous temptation.

For the moment, he’s content.


End file.
